Stolen Ice
by Aesla
Summary: Anna had never known her family. So she bonded with the images, the families forever together, immortalized in their frames. Elsa couldn't remember who she was looking for, not since the accident. But she'd be able to find that person, if she tracked hard enough, got enough money, conned enough demons. Modern AU. Eventual Elsanna.
1. Prologue

_I don't own Frozen._

December 31, 1999 (Y2K)

Memphis, TN

The train was moving too fast and there was nothing she could do.

The heat from the engine burned her eyes, tears slipping out as she coughed up clear mucus. It was too cold near the tracks, the winter wind blowing off the river. She'd never much minded the cold before, but there was something ominous about the night that had her fingertips flexing to ease the bite.

Of course, much of this sensory perception was unnoticed by little Elsa. She was only six, after all.

"Elsa!"

She heard her sister cry and she pumped her arms faster, running alongside the tracks. Air puffed from her lungs and into the frigid night like dragon's steam from her storybook back at the orphanage.

She'd managed to get the toddler onto the floor of the empty boxcar, but she was caught off-guard as the train whistle shrieked and the wheels began to rotate. Elsa had already flung herself at the base of the boxcar once, little limbs dangling dangerously close to the unforgiving tracks. Metal sliced on metal and cared little for the flesh that might stand in its way.

"Anna!"

They were going to escape, to find their parents. Elsa had been so careful, so precise even at her tender age. The bold, intimidating letters in the file did little to deter her sneaking form a week ago at the orphanage. She had told Anna to cry, and cry she did, the little diva, giving Elsa enough time to slide into the front office unnoticed. She knew how to spell her own name, and, after many misread words and one precarious adventure atop an overturned stool, she had found her family file.

Elsa Arrendale, aged 6.

Anna Arrendale, aged 3.

Parental status: deceased.

Contact: Gerda LaRue, New Orleans, LA.

Elsa did not recognize many of the words on the page. She screwed up her tiny little features and ripped it from its binding, putting everything back as neatly as she could. When she snuck out of the office, she saw a beet-red Anna flailing about on the floor, eyes flooding and hiccupping spasmodically.

The performance of a lifetime.

And in a dusty corner of a sad orphanage tucked away on the Memphis riverside, Elsa and Anna made their infantile escape plan. Fueled by nothing more than the desire to be reunited with their family, the plan was doomed from the start.

As Elsa was rapidly realizing, nearly slipping beneath the rolling car after hitting a slick patch of ice.

Anna's three-year-old mind couldn't grasp the concept of Elsa's physical inability to get on the moving train. Her sister had put her in the boxcar. She should very well be able to get herself into the car with Anna.

Elsa saw her sister leaning out of the partially opened car door to reach for her.

"No! Stay in, Anna."

"Elsa!"

Elsa was terrified, staggering through a puddle as she ran. Train whistles screeched and echoed through the chain link fence, bouncing off the immense sheet of water that was the thunderous Mississippi. Lights and numbers were blinking from digitized clocks, wires running every which way from lit posts to track crossing rails to transformers. Elsa's bare hand brushed against exposed wire in her pursuit, and her body suddenly went rigid. She catapulted forward, frail body seizing with aftershocks of the electric jolt that coursed through her bones as the clock struck the new millennium. Sparks flew and singed soft blonde hair.

"Elsaaaaa!" Anna screamed, watching as her older sister, the only constant she had ever known, grow smaller in the retreating distance.

"An—" Elsa tried.

The blonde child lifted her hand, and, with a last fleeting thought of her sister, magically slid the electronic train compartment door shut to keep her safe during her journey. She heaved herself up from the snow, her left leg twitching uncomfortably, the smell of burnt rubber and oil clogging her nose. She would look on the schedule, and sneak aboard the next empty boxcar to New Orleans.

Because, at six years old, life was that simple.

Anna was waiting for her.

Mamma and Papa were waiting for her, for them.

Stumbling forward, Elsa wretched, and her eyes rolled back in her skull. On her descent, her head made contact with discarded cement blocks, and all was cold.

* * *

"… BPs dropping, need to get her into an operating—"

"—lost a lot of blood, there's no background medical file—"

"—Caucasian child, female, five to eight—"

"—superficial lacerations, head trauma, potential subdural hematoma—"

"Why won't the damn monitors work?"

"Can't be the electronic roll over with the new year, Doctor?"

"Of all nights for this to happen…"

"—could've caught hypothermia—"

"Get those monitors online! I need an EKG!"

"None of it's working!"

"—freezing, practically blue—"

"The defibrillator's malfunctioning..."

"Then do it manually!"

"It's not happening to any of the other patients."

"Then it's just her."

"What's just her?"

"The monitors, Doctor. None of the electronic leads can register a pulse, brain activity, heart BPM, anything. The nurse can't even take her temperature! Her vitals are present, but they won't register! The electronics won't work on her, they jam, they're just—"

"Just what!?"

"Frozen."

* * *

_A/N: Okay, just go with me here... _


	2. Field Trip

_I don't own Frozen._

Present Day

New York City

School trip today. Anna filed in at the tale end of the group exiting the bus, readjusting the gray skirt at her hips. She hitched her backpack higher on her shoulders.

_God, these uniforms are awful_.

She skipped up the stone steps to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, traffic singing discordantly on Fifth Avenue. Her pigtails swung as she whipped her head side to side, skirting behind a short brunette as they bypassed the gift shop near the entrance.

"Now girls," Sister Carlotta began. "The exhibition we'll be visiting today comes from the Vatican itself, on loan to the museum through the department of—"

"Sister!" Anna jumped excitedly.

"Yes?"

"Where's the bathroom?"

"Back in the lobby, but don't be long. The tour guide is meeting us here in five minutes. If you miss anything, you'll need to get notes from one of your classmates."

She thought the Sister was being gentle with her because she had just transferred. Anna was grateful.

"Yes Sister Carlotta, I'll be quick!"

Anna turned back toward the front entrance of the museum, checking over her shoulder to see if Sister Carlotta was watching her movements. The nun could barely see the chalkboard in front of her as she lectured, let alone the spritely young woman dodging gallery patrons with charming blunder.

She almost felt bad lying to a nun.

Almost.

Back in the front lobby, Anna proceeded to buy out the entire row of Whatchamacallit candy bars in one of the vending machines. Though it pained her to do so, she waited until no one was watching, and dumped them into a trashcan, migrating back toward the gallery proper. Her head periscoped about, and Anna darted down a hallway on her immediate left, having swiped a keycard from the creepy old security guard leering at the Catholic girls' class as they entered the building. Even with a nun right there, Anna caught his gaze sinking just below the waists of her classmates as they filed in.

_Pathetic._

When this whole thing was done, and they searched out whose card was used, she hoped they blamed him. Hope they fired him.

_Pervert._

She jimmied the lock to the second broom closet and stripped, exchanging the pleated, calf-length skirt and itchy vest for a grey, high-waisted pencil skirt and white button-up blouse. She popped the top two buttons open at her cleavage and tore her fingers through her braided pigtails, raking and smoothing her auburn hair into a polished bun. She pulled a few bits of hair around her face to conceal her features, added a pair of square-framed glasses, black pumps, and an I.D. badge she'd forged after some early reconnaissance of the gallery five weeks ago.

The whole process had taken forty-eight seconds.

_Dammit_.

She was getting slower.

She shoved the uniform into a yellow mop bucket and went back to the service entrance, hitching a right and finding the elevator leading down to the restoration room.

"Hey!"

Anna's lips twitched in excitement.

_Show time._

"Hello there," Anna said, smiling brightly.

A rumpled man with more hair on his lip than his head was coming her way.

"Who are you?"

"Elizabeth Woodhouse, Mr. Daniels. The intern from London's National?" Her seamless slip into some amalgamated Oxbridge accent was as natural as breathing. "I'm quite pleased to meet you, since you missed the meeting earlier."

"Meeting? What meeting?"

"Didn't your assistant tell you?" Anna asked. "That my boss and I were coming by to oversee the Caravaggio transfer?"

"We had the meeting Tuesday. You weren't there."

"Of course not! We only flew in yesterday. You must give a lady proper time to recover from jetlag."

Mr. Daniels did not seem to know how to take this comment.

"Now, you must hurry, Mr. Daniels. Dr. Penny is waiting for you in your office."

"Dr. Penny?! Dr. Nikolaus Penny?!"

"Yes," Anna said softly, feigning confusion. "Mr. Daniels, you did receive our itinerary, did you not?"

"Well, yes! Of course I did! The shipment we received—"

"And you did notify the director of Dr. Penny's arrival?"

Mr. Daniels's face shattered.

"Mr. Daniels!" Anna shrieked. "You mean to tell me the Director of the National Gallery of London is simply sitting in your office with no one to receive him?"

"I—I—I—"

"Please, Mr. Daniels, that is quite enough. You Americans…" Anna waved a hand to her brow, pressing fingers into her temple as if she were deeply upset. "I don't know why you're still standing here talking to me! Please take Dr. Penny down to the collections preparatory room as soon as possible! We're going to be delayed for hours at this rate."

Mr. Daniels stormed off into the labyrinthine hallways in a huff, the assistant director so obviously out of his element it made Anna grin. Out of sight, she swept the security keycard into the elevator that went underground, down to the cool, dark restoration rooms, where hidden treasures just waited to be acquired.

The elevator slowed and the doors parted. Anna removed some loose foundation powder and latex gloves from her bag. Ducking around a corner, she waited impatiently.

10: 37. _Right on time._

A short woman with cropped hair approached the door to the restoration room and entered a four-digit pass code.

The numbers beeped, and she placed her thumb over the infrared scanner.

Anna replayed the sounds in her head: _E_, _G_, _C_, high _G_. Removing some loose face powder from her backpack, Anna applied the miniscule granules to the thumb pad with a makeup brush, letting the powder absorb the natural oils of the woman's finger. She got a decent impression from the attempt.

She then mashed 3-5-1-#, and used a latex gloved thumb to press into the thumb pad. The powder and latex registered the previous woman's fingerprint, and the door popped open with nary an alarm or flashing light. Phase two, complete.

"Germany, England, Denmark, Italy, Russia, ah—" Anna sighed, grin overtaking her face. "France_. I vous avez manqué._"

The current items on loan from several galleries in France were mostly locked away in moisture-resistant, temperature controlled storage lockers.

But not Joan. She was up for preemptory restorations before beginning her three week tour, on loan from the Centre Historique des Archives Nationales in Paris.

_Poor Joan. You were meant to be free!_

The motion sensor alarms along the floor were armed. Anna could see the blinking red light at the entrance to the restoration lab, knowing the laser beams lay invisible somewhere in front of her.

She checked her watch again: 10:42. The curator meetings dismissed at 10:50, occasionally earlier. Security came back to the monitors after their rounds at 10:48, but she had planned for that.

_Work to be done_.

Anna removed a container of travel size aerosol hairspray. The sticky curtain of pressurized hair glue revealed horizontal green laser beams about two inches off the ground. They led all the way up to the table with Joan.

In and out of her bag of tricks once more, and Anna retrieved a large roll of aluminum foil. Setting to work with the practiced hand of an origami master, Anna fashioned two long, standing panels out of aluminum foil, inverted capital _T_s of silver that ran out about three feet in length. She placed them gently on the ground beside one another. She pushed them forward into the beams of the security lasers, and then, spread the standing foil pieces apart.

_Like parting the Red Sea_.

The green security beams buzzed casually, but as if nothing had changed. They were being reflected back along themselves, so neither movement nor heat could trigger the alarms. They did not betray her sure step, heels clacking on linoleum as she extracted gloves and a collapsible tubing mechanism.

"Hi Joan. Long time, no see."

She meticulously curled the aging vellum, taking extreme care not to crease or fold any section. The integrity would be compromised, and all for naught.

Anna quickly placed the ancient work into the tube and sealed it, stepping back through the beams, and dragging the foil barriers along with her. The place looked untouched, except for the massive blank workspace that once housed a five-hundred year old painting.

Anna turned her head at the sound of chairs scraping floorboards.

10:47.

_Shit_. _They're early_.

She exited the room just as the curator emerged. Back on the elevator and she had moments, mere seconds before the painting was discovered missing. It dinged her arrival back to the first floor, and she stepped out into the secure hallway. Feigning nonchalance, she stuck her small chest out as she bypassed men with coffee, women with clip boards. They all smiled and snuck an occasional glance at her I.D. badge.

_People are too damn trusting._

Rounding the corner back to her broom closet, she saw two security guards ambling back into the front room where all of the security monitors were housed.

"Jimmy, what took you so long?"

"Sorry Fred, all the Whatchamacallits were gone, and it took me longer than usual to pick something out."

"You and your chocolate."

The middle-aged men disappeared, just as Anna reemerged from the broom closet, now a Catholic school girl again.

She rushed up to Sister Carlotta five minutes later as the students filed out onto the front steps. Her pigtails were coming loose, and her cheeks were flushed.

"Oh Sister, there you are!" Anna said.

"Caroline! You missed the entire tour!"

"It was only fifteen minutes. We needed much more time in that gallery, it's massive! I couldn't find the group…" she trailed off, tilting her chin down. "I didn't mean to mess up my first week here, Sister, honest I didn't!" Anna started to bite her fingernail. "No, I'm not supposed to do that anymore," she said, pulling her hand down.

Two days prior, Sister Carlotta had chastised her for nail-biting.

Anna did not bite her nails.

Caroline did.

"I… I got a brochure, so I can take notes," Anna said weakly.

The nun was looking softer than butter.

"And, I'm trying to talk to the other girls, I am. It's just sort of hard, transferring in your senior year—"

"The Lord will never give us more than we can handle," Sister Carlotta said. "I'm sure He'll see fit to place the right girls in your path to help you along in the year."

Sister Carlotta squeezed her arm, and Anna forced her eyes to water.

She knew then she had her.

"Yes, Sister. I'm sure He will."

"Back on the bus with you. I can tell you the details you need to know about the exhibit for the quiz on Friday."

"Thank you, Sister. I— I stopped by the gift shop, when I couldn't find the class. I got this poster of the Sistine Chapel ceiling. 'The Creation of Adam', I think. I could show you, once we get back to school?" she motioned to the tube at her back.

"That will do, Caroline. Now on the bus."

Anna rolled her eyes, unable to hide the smirk spreading across her face.

As the bus turned at a stop light on Fifth Avenue, Anna could hear the faint sound of sirens approaching the Met.

And when the bus rolled back into the parking drop at St. Agatha's, Sister Carlotta despaired to find that they were one girl short.

* * *

In a nondescript warehouse along the Hudson, Anna removed the illuminated text from its casing and began her own restoration procedures. Satisfied with the preservation and framing materials many hours later, Anna collapsed on her bed in the middle of her makeshift flat. Eyes from stolen portraits watched over her silently.

Even thieves need guardian angels.

* * *

_A/N: Okay, so, there's that. And there might be more. It's all quite convoluted in my head currently, and I'm rubbish at updating. But I can try. Review if you feel so inclined, let me know what you think of the concept._


	3. Working Hard or Hardly Working

_I don't own Frozen._

* * *

"Sven, if you would?"

The hairy hulker raised his rock of a fist and put two gentlemen on the ground with a spine-cracking _thud_. A score of limp, unconscious bodies dotted the pristine tile floors of the Grecian estate. Blood smeared white columns in starburst patches, empty shell casings tinkling against the floor like wind chimes. Someone moaned.

_Who knew a country with no economy to speak of could afford that kind of security?_

Kristoff walked over to the display case, shattered it with his pick, and withdrew the Fabergé egg. Russian, he thought. Not really his concern where it came from. Just who he got it to.

A would know where it came from. She always did.

He pocketed the jewel encrusted oval and nodded at Sven, kicking a body as he tromped out of the main house at the compound. The estate had been gated, patrolled, and guarded. But that didn't really stop Kristoff and Sven. If anybody ever asked and lived to hear the answer, Kristoff would tell them he worked in acquisitions. A… harvester, of sorts. Just what type of acquisitions, what type of harvests, he never revealed.

Sven scrunched his huge form behind the wheel of the miniscule hatchback, broad shoulders nearly taking up the entire front seat of the car. He grunted and pulled away from the mob leader's estate.

Kristoff's personal cell started ringing not moments later.

"Speak of the devil! Hey, do you know if those fancy egg jewel things are Russian?" he asked.

"You mean the Faberge Egg collection of Tsar Nicholos II and Alexander III?" A asked.

"Sounds right. God, people have weird tastes in this business."

"The last one sold at auction for $5.5 million."

"Seriously? Then my retainer just went up another ten percent," he laughed.

"How's Sven?" A asked.

"Quiet, as always."

"That's rude!"

"Well, when you get your tongue cut out by Serbian mercenaries, you can't be much other than quiet—Dammit, Sven!"

"I hope he hit you hard."

"None of your concern, A. And may I ask the reason for your call? Great to hear from you, like always, but as you can tell, we're on the clock."

"I was going to tell you to check CNN, but if you're at this number I'm guessing you're not stateside."

"Why do I need to check CNN?"

"'Cause I'm about to make national news," A bragged, smile evident even in her disembodied voice.

"Again? What was it this time?"

"The earliest known painting of Joan of Arc. Got it from the Met in New York."

"You better watch yourself. Someone almost recognized you in Chicago last time. You don't look like a kid anymore."

"That's how I broke in this time, dumbass! It's like you think I don't do my prep."

"You do yours, I do mine. Just different styles. We're basically the same."

"Uhm, I don't _kill_ people, Kristoff."

"I don't kill people, either. I kill hired guns, which are not the same as common, decent folk."

"You were never one for semantics, Kristoff. And I don't partner. We can't all be Vega and Winnfield."

"What?"

"_Pulp Fiction_?" A asked.

"What?"

"Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?"

"If this is another movie thing—"

"Oh, here we go…"

"A?"

"…"

"A?"

"…"

"Shit, I'm not gonna stay on the line while you get some weird high from watching your own news story."

"Shut up!" A said.

"No, I told you, we're about to meet our client—"

"Kristoff, seriously."

Kristoff looked out the window as he and Sven pulled into a haphazard Greek town. A group of teenagers were kicking a dirty ball around in an alley while convening protestors picketed a rather official looking building three blocks away. One of the soccer players had her hair tied back in pigtails.

Just like A.

He had met A about five years ago on a job. He and Sven occasionally teamed up with thieves and would run a 30-30-40 split if the job was particularly big. But he had never worked with someone so _young_ before. Never someone so young, or so naturally talented at the art that was performance grifting.

A had backstories for her backstories, forged documents, aliases for aliases, passport photos and birth certificates with social security numbers and citizenship records for a dozen different fictional people in as many countries. She specialized in stolen art: sculptures, paintings, textiles, sketchbooks. You name it, A had stolen it. At the tender age of fourteen, she'd been introduced to Kristoff and Sven, two barely twenty-somethings just trying to make their name in the family business.

Her cover for that job was Danielle Libnsk, and that was the name he'd known her as for over a year and a half. After a handful more jobs and impromptu meetups in the Eurozone, he'd eeked out an initial from the girl. She was not one to harp on the past, but he'd never forget their first job together.

They had met in Oslo, at the National Gallery in Norway.

They nearly walked right by her at the cafe after scouring the meeting spot for fifteen minutes. The young men were supposed to be meeting their 'in' to the gallery. She'd popped up, bright smiles and glee, and had sent the rough and tumble boys into big-brother mode with nothing more than a wink and few fluent sentences in Norwegian. And a meticulous plan for sneaking past security at the gallery that involved a fake allergic reaction and a jury-rigged EpiPen.

Having acquired the targeted masterpiece, Kristoff and Sven were packed up in the getaway car, resolving to leave the girl on her lonesome to deal with the local authorities. Seconds passed, and A clambered into the rear seat, a large plastic tube tucked securely under her shoulder.

"It's Norway," A said, as if that was all the explanation she needed.

"Yeah, so?" Kristoff had asked.

"Norway. Edvard Munch."

"What?" the blonde twisted around in his seat.

"I just haaaaaad to do it," A drawled. "Who knows when I would get another chance?"

She unfurled a rather disturbing painting, some near-skeleton clutching the sides of its face on a country road with a ruddy background. Kristoff hated it.

"That wasn't what the client wanted us to get."

"I know! Think of this as like, the prize that comes with the Happy Meal!" A said.

"What are you gonna do with it?"

"I'll keep it for a while. He looks like he needs a friend, don't you think?" A had said, indicating the skeleton. "I suppose I'll ransom it, or sell it on the black market when I feel he's gotten over his sadness."

"You're weird," Kristoff said.

But that hadn't stopped him from keeping up with the girl. She was only fourteen. Hell, she could have been twelve or sixteen for all he knew. Fourteen was just the age of her Norwegian alias.

Sven made a sharp left around a crew of rioting Greeks and shook Kristoff from his musings. He returned to the phone call.

"A?"

"Yeah?"

"You still there?"

"Yeah, I'm just—oh, hell."

"What's wrong?"

"Somebody stole my spotlight!"

"What?"

"I thought the Met would definitely release something about the stolen painting, but it turns out, I wasn't the only person burgling the gallery that day!"

"What?" Kristoff asked.

"God, I don't know. Some ruby, or sapphire or something. It's on a shirt, and isn't even pretty! So lifeless, so cold-looking."

"How much was it worth?" Kristoff asked.

"It's not always about the money, Kristoff!"

"If you really believed that, you wouldn't still be in this business."

"As you keep needlessly reminding me, I'm just a kid. What do I know?" she retorted.

"We're not kids, A. We never were," his tone was serious enough to make Sven cast him a sympathetic glance.

There was silence on the other end of the line, and then:

"Do you ever wish you had the chance to be? You know, a kid?"

Kristoff ran a hand over a nasty scar on his forearm.

"Yeah," he whispered. "Sometimes I do."

"Stay safe, Kristoff. Love to Sven."

"Always, A. We'll come for a visit next time we're stateside."

"Alright."

"Alright." Kristoff hung up the phone.

Sven nudged him with an elbow.

"She's fine, Sven."

The burly mute eyed him.

"Don't look at me in that tone of voice!"

* * *

Anna chucked her phone into her mountain of pillows and flopped about on the bed like a salmon. She'd changed the channels to all of the major twenty-four hour news networks, and the only recognition she'd gotten had been in an annotation scrolling along the bottom of the screen in a ticker:

_*the oldest known painting of Joan of Arc was taken hours earlier from the Met, while the security system was still running. The NYPD is currently investigating…_

Fine. _I don't do it for the recognition anyway. _

It was past supper time and Anna was famished. She could pop over to her favorite deli, load up on a Rueben and some salt and vinegar chips, and then come back and introduce Joan to her new friends. She'd take her by the French collection first. Better for her to be with her fellow countrymen. It sounded like a swell idea until her phone started buzzing again.

"A?"

"It's like when I start thinking about Germans, you always call."

"You were thinking about me?"

"Not you, specifically. More like Sauer-kraut."

"What?"

"Never mind. I'm hungry. What do you want?"

"So snippy today," Hans said through the phone. "I was just wondering if you wanted a job."

"What kind of job?"

"The kind that requires you to get all dressed up while obtaining a rather special ornament for a client of mine."

"Is it like a ball?" Anna asked, unable to disguise her own excitement. Her favorite jobs were always the gallery openings, the State dinners, the charity balls. Where she could get all dressed up and slip into another body, shedding her natural bumbling for a controlled grace that suggested sophistication in spades.

"Yes, like a ball."

"Tell me more."

"I've got a client looking to get his hands on a miniature of _The Thinker_."

"I didn't know Rodin cast any miniatures," Anna said.

"He didn't. That's why my client wants it so badly. Rodin forwent cast bronze for this version, a foot high marble carving. Catalogued in France, but never exhibited. It got to the mark's house through a few back alley dealings. It'd be worth a pretty penny."

"The money sounds good, but my biggest concern is carrying marble. Might as well have sent me after the full-size bronze one in Washington."

"The one at the WTC site is still missing. Have a look for it," Hans joked. "But that's not your biggest concern."

"You're not making this sound like a job I want to take," Anna huffed.

"Just hear me out, A. The miniature is at Dr. Owen Moore's home, but in a Stepton 4650."

"You know I can't break that vault, Hans. I don't have that kind of equipment!"

"I'm bringing in someone to help with that. I won't be back in the states until things die down a little over here—"

"Still in Amsterdam?"

"Kiev, but let's not get into it. I was gonna take the job myself, but I can't get out of the country in time."

"So you're offering me a pity job? Thanks."

"No, it just seemed like your scene. I can call some other people if you're not up for it."

"Well, who's the third? And how do you want to do the split?"

"I haven't met her personally yet," Hans said. "Or maybe it's a him, I don't know. But whoever they are, they're wanting at least fifty percent of the client offer, with twenty-five upfront."

"That's a bold move."

"They can afford to ask for it. Tell me, A, have you ever heard of the Ice Queen?"

Anna racked her brain for any memories of the name. The best she could come up with was a fur-covered Tilda Swinton with a troll sidekick. She even rearranged the letters in her head a few times to see if it was a clever anagram. No such luck.

"No, can't say that I have."

"Which is telling," Hans continued. "I've only heard the name spoken on occasion, and even then, it's a lot of mystery. But, this so-called Queen has moved more than ten billion in stolen jewels in the past five years alone."

"Again, what does this have to do with the miniature _Thinker_?"

"He or she is your third. They can break the Stepton."

"This person seems awful confident."

"Sounds like someone else I know," Hans teased.

"Awe, screw it, why not? Even if I only get twenty percent of the fee, I'll still do it. I'm finally at the age where the waiters don't stare me down every time I grab a champagne from the open bar."

"Great. And you can have twenty percent. I'll take the thirty for landing the job."

"You?" Anna asked, incredulous. "When have you ever accepted less than forty?"

"When I found out just how much thirty percent would be. Trust me, A. You'll be fine with twenty. And this Ice Queen, fuck, I don't know what she'll do with all that money."

"Probably buy some more diamonds, add to her collection."

"I don't really care; anyway, you're on at nine. Dress is black tie, so your best, if you please. I'll text you the address."

"Wait, nine as in, like tonight?!" Anna gasped.

"Yes."

"Hans, that gives me zero prep time."

"What do you need to prep? It's an in-and-out job at a society party and you've already got the biggest obstacle taken care of."

"Leave it to a man to assume that the vault is the biggest obstacle."

"Well what is it then?" Hans asked.

"I don't have anything to wear!"

* * *

_A/N: Why hello there plot! I see you've moved to the forefront in lieu of character development... sneaky sneaky. Lots of stuff I needed to get out of the way in this chapter, but fun times ahead if you're willing to come along for the ride. Would love some feedback, even if it's just to complain about how complex or silly that entire page of dialogue was. Ciao for now!_

_-A_


	4. A Spark

_I don't own Frozen._

* * *

The façade of the Moore house was ugly. Hideous. Unattractive. Aesthetically irredeemable, and so on, and so forth. Sprouting like a wart on the otherwise picturesque landscape of upstate New York, the Gothic behemoth was an exercise in pretension. It even had its own _gargoyles_, for crying out loud.

_Like what the literal hell_.

Anna pulled up to the estate drive in an unmarked black sedan, the kind that car services used to chauffer important people to important places. She turned off the headlights and crept about five hundred yards down the road, where she saw another unmarked vehicle parked on a gravel cut-through path, the kind landscapers traversed with their shovel-laden ATVs. She glanced down at the digital clock on the console: 8:30. Just enough time to meet the third and hash out a preliminary plan.

Anna parked and stepped out of the car, praying she didn't break a heel on the gravel. No one emerged from the van.

Anna sidled up to the white vehicle and knocked twice on the side door. The door slid open faster than a Formula One car, and a covered hand was dragging Anna into the back before she could properly recover.

It was eerily dim inside.

An entire wall of monitors covered the left side of the vehicle behind the driver's seat, slim keyboards and plastic receivers and snaking wires pooling in curlicue loops on the carpeted floor. The interior of the mansion was displayed on every screen from multiple cameras. Black and white footage subdivided four sections on three separate monitors, so the van occupant essentially had every angle of the mansion covered.

Anna was flabbergasted.

"What is—"

"I hacked into the estate's security mainframe, and have a feedback loop playing over the three angles in front of the vault. All clear. You'll just need to run interference with the security patrol."

The voice was low, detached, but had a soft vulnerability to it that attracted Anna. The auburn-haired girl was a gifted mimic, but a voice like that would take ages to counterfeit if she ever used it for a con. Anna turned to her right to see a form, definitely female, leisurely typing onto a touchscreen tablet.

"But I… that's… I had a whole performance planned. And I thought I was going to do the lift."

"We'll do it my way."

"It's rude not to look at people when you're talking to them."

"I try not to talk to people," the woman said, swiveling in her desk chair to face Anna.

She was clad in some skin-tight black cat suit from toe to head. Whispy bits of blonde hair poked out from under a black beanie, hiding a regal forehead that sloped down into ice-blue eyes. She was unexpectedly young, or would have been, had her demeanor and care-worn creases at the vertexes of her eyes not aged her so.

Anna had never seen someone so pale.

_Did Hans team her up with some sort of vampire delinquent? _

"Would you like to synchronize watches?" the woman asked, blank faced. The soft glow of the monitors shimmered on her cheeks, flawless phosphorescence.

There was something vaguely familiar about her, and it put Anna on edge. It was a disconcerting recognition, uncanny almost, as if she had known the woman in another life. Of course, Anna had lived as many lives as a thrice-charmed cat. It would take weeks to sift through her sea of contacts to know if she had, in fact, worked with the woman before. Yet her con instincts weren't telling her to run, quite the opposite. The blonde wasn't dangerous, just… intriguing.

"Does it look like I'd wear a digital watch with this ensemble?" Anna gestured to her slinky velveteen gown, black for the season with simple pearls for embellishment. "I'm going for Audrey Hepburn, not Laura Croft."

"Uh… okay. I don't know what that… I mean, you can have my spare, they're already synched." She tossed a bulky wristwatch into Anna's lap.

"I'm not wearing this. Floor-length black gowns do not pair well with Swiss Army watches. And I won't be able to make it past the ballroom at a specific time, anyway, so synchronizing is pointless. I haven't done enough prep for this to know security patrol times. I'm going to have to work the room, gauge the atmosphere of the place."

The woman's brow furrowed and her cheek spasmed. Anna could sense the discomfort, and went on the defensive. The little grifter was quite skilled at the cold read, after all.

"Don't worry, I've got a rock-hard back story that'll have the host swooning over me. What's your in? We can decide on a rendezvous point."

"What's an 'in'?" the woman asked.

"Your cover? Your story? How are you planning on getting into the party? In a suit like that, you look like you're just gonna scale the walls."

The woman tilted her head with a hostility that made Anna feel like a chided six-year-old.

_Oh god._

"You're gonna scale the wall? Seriously?" Anna asked.

"For all it's security, it's easily penetrated," the woman said. "And no talking for me. With those people. It's better this way."

Her lids sunk down over large doe eyes. Anna could see her pupils darting back and forth under the skin flaps, the woman's hands raised, fingertips spread and moving minutely, as if she were typing in air. Her black gloves chaffed and Anna heard static build.

"There," she said. Typing onto her tablet for Anna's benefit, a 3-D hologram was suddenly projected between the two women in electric blue lights, an exact rendering of the fugly Moore mansion.

The blonde took a gloved hand and rotated the hologram, spreading two fingers to zoom in on the third floor window in the south wing.

The action seemed so practiced that it took moments for Anna to realize:

_She was manipulating a hologram. Just what kind of tech is she working with here?_

"Here's the vault," she said. "Cameras and motion sensors here, here, and here." She directed the light show with deft fingers, opening the top of the holographic mansion like some bizarre electro-cookie jar. "They're taken care of."

"What do you mean?"

"Scrambled the feeds."

"Won't that make them suspicious?"

"I haven't scrambled them _yet_," she hissed.

"Hell, sorry. Chill out," Anna said.

"Two patrols, here and here," she continued brusquely, as if Anna was nothing more than a pesky sunbeam that she needed to strangle.

_Seriously, did this woman have a vitamin D deficiency? _

"That's where you come and do…" she gave Anna an appraising look, like a bored feline. "…whatever it is that you do."

"Wow, thanks."

The woman turned away with no response and rummaged through a black bag.

_No wonder they called her the Ice Queen. _

Anna had never seen such a lack of social skills.

"Here, EPs."

She deposited a small, flesh colored piece of plastic into Anna's palm.

"What?"

"EPs. Ear pieces? Do you ever use these on collaborative jobs?"

"No, normally I meet my second or third beforehand. Get to know them, get a feel for their style," Anna joked. "Dinner, movie, 'what's your favorite color', are you a chloroform or mace type of gal?"

"If that was an attempt at levity, I do not know how to respond. It seems irrelevant to our objective."

_No shit Sherlock_.

"I'll wear the earpiece."

"Here, like this," the woman said, and pressed her own securely into her ear canal.

Anna followed suit.

"There's a mic in it that registers your specific vocal pitch. Talk a little bit and I'll adjust the settings." She turned to one of the keyboards on the left wall of the van.

"Alright, talk, my greatest talent… let's see. Oh! I can tell you all about my last job. See, I only do jobs for hire on the side. I'm more of a liberator, I like to think. 'Cause I love art, and the stories it tells. Anyway, I was at the Met earlier today—"

The woman stopped typing. "You were at the Met?"

"I just said that, now let me finish. They were doing some restorations on this _gorgeous_ painting, circa 1550s France, the earliest known rendering of Joan of Arc. Anyway, basic schoolgirl grift, but those nuns do tend to drone—"

"You were wearing pigtails."

"Right! But once I got out of that uniform—wait, what? How did you know I wore pigtails?"

The blonde kept typing, but her eyes shifted to Anna. No smile. Not even a bob of the head. Just... placid.

"I was at the Met, too."

Anna's cheeks suddenly felt hot. First off, how dare that woman comment on her pigtails! Anna hadn't even noticed her there, and well, it was unnerving because if she had noticed her, that meant Anna was slipping. And secondly, this had to be the woman who had stolen her primetime spot on CNN.

_Not that I do it for the recognition._

"Did you steal that jewel thing from the Luxembourg exhibit?" Anna asked.

"It was a jeweled tunic, with quintuple facet diamonds hand-sewn into the fabric. Large carrot sapphires running the length of the sleeves. Exquisite."

"Oooooh! So how did you get past security?"

The blonde's pursed lips straightened to a thin line, and her forget-me-nots found the monitors once again.

"I… don't talk about my work. I actually prefer to work alone. So let's get this over with, shall we?"

"Fine by me," Anna said, patting the underside of her gala-ready hairdo. She smoothed out a wrinkle over the skirt of her gown and touched the EP at her ear. The woman's blatant staring had her more on edge than that pack of Rottweilers she'd encountered while slipping past the consulate bodyguards in Madrid.

"Test, test."

"You don't have to do that," the blonde snapped, opening the door to the van. "I built it. It works."

"You're strange."

The woman cocked her head and a brow shot up. It would have been charming, or even… alluring, if Anna hadn't taken part in the previous sporadic conversation.

"Yes, I've been told that before."

"You can call me Sarah," Anna said. "That's my name for this job. What about you?"

"What about me?"

"What do I call you, in case I need to get your attention?"

"Oh, hmm. I've never used titles before. As I said, I prefer to work alone."

"As do I," Anna continued. "But I'm not calling you Agent 99 or Miss MoneyPenny or anything Bond-like."

"There's only two of us. Why would we need to use such high numerals?"

"It all just goes right over your head, doesn't it? Like African swallows with coconuts."

"I believe this conversation has taken a turn for the metaphorical, and the night is growing short."

"That's not— meta— just tell me what to call you!" Anna said, exasperated.

"You can call me… uhm… well, what do you know me as?"

"Hans said you were the Ice Queen."

"Ice Queen?" the woman asked, head popping forward. Her neck careened out, straining against the turtleneck of her black shirt. Her eyes widened, lips parted and upturned at the corners.

Easy read for Anna. Tell-tell facial tics of interest.

"Yeah, 'cause of your diamond fetish," she explained.

"It's not a fetish," she barked. "And I never knew I had a title…" she readjusted the strap to a dark duffel bag that was nearly the size of her slim body.

Anna could barely see her in the dark of the night, the cool fall air blowing a few of her face-framing layers into her eyes. Had the woman turned sideways toward the grounds, she would've faded away like dissipating shadow. Like she was never there. The wind picked up again and Anna shivered. It stung her eyes so Anna blinked, trying not to mess up her warpaint.

"You can call me Queen."

Anna tried not to roll her eyes, tried to negotiate the stillness of the Queen's face with the rest of her body. The blonde betrayed nothing, probably because she _felt_ nothing. It was a test in passivity with this woman. People who feel, who allow themselves the passion and anger and joy of inhibition are easy marks and easy reads. Anna learned this lesson too well and much too young. But the Queen was cold. The Queen gave nothing away.

_And hell if it didn't make her all the more interesting._

"Fine, good luck," Anna stretched out a hand.

The Queen looked at the hand with the same expression one might use when viewing a crocodile's teeth.

"Luck is a fallacious cornerstone for people easily taken in by gambling and the superstitious."

"Just shake my damn hand! If I'm caught, I like to think the last hand I touch before incarceration could be a friendly one."

"We aren't friends."

"Then criminal comrades. It's not like I'm going to tase you."

And then, as if the meeting couldn't get any more peculiar, the woman _laughed_.

"Haha! Sarah, sure," said the Queen. "I likewise hope your notions of superstitious fallacies support you in your endeavor." She tentatively reached her hand toward Anna's, and grasped her fingertips in the worst handshake the caramel-headed girl had ever had the misfortune to experience. It was like the woman had never shaken another hand in her life.

And along with the dead-fish handshake came a static shock that went all the way down to Anna's toes.

"Ouch! Dammit, dammit, hell."

"Sorry," the Queen said. "All the wires, and the tech gloves. And the monitors—"

"Sure whatever," Anna said, shaking out her arms from the jolt. "I'll try to be on the third floor shortly. Give me at least twenty-five minutes though, half an hour's probably more like it."

"Alright."

The Queen shouldered her bag and leapt on the side of the stonewall surrounding the estate, shimmying up the smooth surface like some sort of tree lizard.

_Forget Queen. She's part fuckin' squirrel._

Anna turned on her heel and got ready to put on her performance as 'Sarah'. She could very well worry about the offbeat woman once the job was done. The Queen was just another enigma garnished with shavings of conundrum, a common occurrence in Anna's chosen occupation. And just because she was pale as a ghost, had the peculiar talent for vanishing into thin air, seemed as though she'd not spoken to anyone in eons- it shouldn't have _stimulated_ Anna to this degree. It bothered her, for no one had burrowed under her skin like that in years. And for good reason.

Anna didn't let them.

There were many things Anna did not know about the Queen, but there was one thing she was quite sure of:

Anna did not like her.

* * *

_A/N: A quicker update, in honor of Oscar night. #breakalegidina and Go Frozen!_

_Also, thanks to all the followers taking a chance on this. I really appreciate all of your feedback._


	5. Working Together

_I don't own Frozen._

* * *

At least the interior of the mansion made up for the exterior. The moldings were clean-cut, the columns and arches sedate, and the yellow walls and cream-white tile reflected light in the room beautifully. The chandelier was an ostentatious eyesore, but on the whole, the interior of Moore House held just the right level of pretension, functionality, and charm.

And it was perfect for a private exhibition.

The physical security was tighter than she expected. Anna counted several cameras, none of which she was too bothered by. The Queen had hacked the house's mainframe, to ensure her presence be stricken from the video record. What did have her twitching in her stilettos was the sheer number of security staff. She'd done a head count of at least six in the foyer alone, big beefy dudes with white cords looping over their ears like alien appendages. Of course, it was the main exhibition area, she expected the guards to be placed near the better pieces. But what tipped her off to the more priceless items, those on display for only those who could pay, were the four guards stationed at the first and second floor entrances of the south wing.

The wing that Anna needed to infiltrate to give the Queen the cover and time she needed to disarm the Stepton vault.

_Shit_.

Might as well get this show started.

"Dr. Moore!" Anna said excitedly, rushing up to the host. "I'm honestly thrilled to make your acquaintance. I haven't seen any of the Yeats pieces out of their cases in years!"

Dr. Owen Moore was one of those middle-aged Americans who resented his melting-pot nationality. The type of man who pretended to know everything about a country he'd only ever visited in order to seem more interesting in the right company. He could probably trace his lineage back to one of the original clans on the Emerald Isle, and he had the history books in his library to prove it. Dr. Moore shoved that 1/16 of Irish blood he had running through his veins down the throats of anyone who would listen, and used his extensive fortune acquired through several racketeering exploits to host lavish exhibitions of his private collection. Such as this one.

Word on the street was he had a thing for Irish-born redheads.

"So you're familiar with Yeats' works?" Dr. Moore asked, slick little grin sliding over a chin with a cleft the size of the Marianas Trench. "I've not had the pleasure Miss…"

"Conner. Sarah Conner. I'm doing my undergraduate work through Trinity in Dublin, aye you see, but I'm on gap year leave with the Mitchell Foundation. When I heard about your exhibition at NYU, my professor graciously agreed to secure an invite. I've not the foggiest how I've ended up in such an estate as yours in _America_ of all places."

Dr. Moore's face relaxed at her girlish chatter. "And your professor is?"

"Dr. Power, Celtic and Gaelic studies. He's doing a semester in the city, joint operations program with Boston College."

"Oh! I know Dr. Power well. Met him on my last visit to Galway. But you don't seem to have an accent from the west, if my ears don't deceive me. And nothing so churlish as that Dublin brogue. You're from county—"

"Donegal, in the north," she said, with a flawless Irish lilt.

"Eehmm, Owen?"

"How rude of me. Sarah Conner, my brilliant wife, Carla. She's organized the whole event. Carla, please come meet this charming Irish lass on leave from the motherland. Got her over here with the Mitchell scholarship program. At least out government's doing something right."

"Delighted," Carla said.

Judging from her tone, Carla was the opposite of delighted. She eyed Anna like some scavenging bird, ready to pick the flesh off of her freckled carcass.

"Mrs. Moore, such a lovely event," Anna gushed, then turned to Dr. Moore. "Though I had hoped to see some of Yeats' painted oil works. Not that the sketches aren't fascinating! I'd love to hear your take on them, you being such a consummate fan."

"Darling, would you mind?" Dr. Moore asked his wife.

"Of course not dear, I need to make the rounds." The tubby older lady stalked away to a corner and proceeded to down two flutes of champagne.

"You see these lines, here?" Dr. Moore pointed out several pencil sketches at one of the displays. "Jack Yeats was such a fan of horses. Took him quite some time to get the shading correct."

"Oh really?" Anna asked, knowing the man knew nothing about sketching, let alone what made a substantial line in the shaping of motion animals. "I've seen his oil works of the horses in the gallery in Dublin. I'd just go and sit on the benches in the museum sometimes, and stare at the colors. The pencil sketches are class, but those bold paintings are simply… exhilarating."

At that statement, Anna raked her finger along Dr. Moore's flabby bicep.

"The colors are so rich, like there's a pent-up energy, just waiting to be released." Anna chuckled gaily. "Like your eyes would explode under that kind of fantastic, colorful pressure."

"Well, what if I told you I have some of his oil works here?"

"Do you?" Anna asked, face transitioning from interested undergrad to knowing woman in less than a clock tick. "I would, well… I'd do quite _anything_ to get to see them up close. They've taken so many out of gallery circulation due to the frame damage."

"I have a few friends in high places. I don't normally let just anyone come back to see the private collection."

_Why Dr. Moore, your innuendo is showing._

"I'm sure we could think of some sort of compensation? I'm only a poor undergrad in a foreign country, Dr. Moore, but…" she dropped her voice for effect. "You do know what they say about redheads?"

And she gripped his arm ever tighter.

Dr. Moore caught her eye and winked. Anna had had enough experiences dealing with married sleazeballs to keep herself from gagging at his leer. She merely brushed some imaginary lint from his shoulder to make sure her meaning was clear, and then found herself being escorted by the party host up to the second floor of the south wing. Anna saw Carla cross the foyer as Dr. Moore led her up to the balcony; the older woman was dragging one of the more attractive male members of the wait staff into a coat closet, to hell with what her guests thought.

The same could probably be said for the attractive young woman being led by the host of the party who was undoubtedly twice her age.

"Gentlemen, if you please."

The security guards granted them access to the south wing, Anna noting the position of the stairs that would lead her up to the Stepton's location. Dr. Moore turned down one carpeted corridor, scurvygrass flowers bursting from side tables and the cross of St. Brigid adorning the entrances to the side rooms. It was a pathetic attempt at repatriation.

Dr. Moore led Anna into a spacious, well-lit study-slash-library, which housed five separate oils works by Jack B. Yeats.

"Isn't this _The Wild Ones_?" Anna asked, rather taken aback.

"You have a very good eye, Miss Conner."

"Well, it was the first piece for an Irish artist in the 20th century to sell for over a million pounds. I'm merely interested in how you acquired it."

"Oh, well, academia is not at all as stuffy as your professors would have you think. Connections can be made, names dropped, Miss Conner."

"Sarah, please."

"Then you may call me Owen."

"Of course, Owen," Anna said, head lingering over her bare shoulder just a fraction of a second longer than was entirely decent. "And this one here, such heavy spackling. An exemplary model of the expressionist movement."

"Beautiful and smart, Sarah."

"I must try," she said coyly, dragging a finger over a mahogany table in the center of the room. She sauntered up to Dr. Moore with a bit more swing in her hips than was necessary. She whispered her next sentence, so he would have to lean down to hear her. "They don't just give the Mitchell scholarship to any old girl at a Donegal chippie."

"I am extremely grateful that that is the case."

"I was wondering…" Anna said slowly, her curved finger migrating to the sleeve of Dr. Moore's Armani suit. She hitched a hip onto the mahogany table, crossed legs and slit up to _there_ barely brushing Dr. Moore's trouser leg. "Is there a place I could, well, freshen up? That is, I… I could listen to you talk about the pieces _all night_, and I would very much want to be—" she raked her eyes from his face to his boots and back again, arching an eyebrow on her visual ascent. "—prepared."

Dr. Moore stifled a cough, and put a sweaty palm to the back of her waist.

_Hands, mister!_ She wanted to shout.

"Down the hall, third door on you right. I'll be here when you're finished."

"Ten minutes," Anna breathed, clutching the doctor's tie as she took her leave. She was satisfied to see him grasp the door handle to the study for support, and then dart back into the room to rearrange a few parts south of his cumber bun.

She wasted no time in finding the stairs, snagging a half-empty champagne flute that a rogue guest or wait staffer had placed upon a second-floor furniture piece. She started talking quietly and hoped the ear piece would register.

"Queen? Uhm, hello, are you there?"

"Yes?"

"Are you in position at the vault?"

"I've been hanging underneath this window for fifteen minutes, stomaching your chatter. Have you found the patrols yet?"

Anna took the stairs two at a time, thankful for the carpet to muffle her tread. She turned once, twice, and again around a corner, finally finding the two men-in-black at the entrance to a little alcove on the third floor. She pulled the top of her strapless gown up, rearranging her breasts and swiping a few stray hairs from her face.

"Got 'em. How long do you need?"

"Four minutes and twenty-eight seconds."

"Wow. Precise, aren't you?"

"Precision can be the difference between death and a one-inch gap between your body and the asphalt when bungee jumping from a skyscraper."

Anna sprinkled some drops of champagne behind her ears and in the hollow of her neck, studying the two large guards. She then took out a small penlight from her clutch and shined the beam directly into her eyes, dilating her pupils.

"I'm not going to ask how you know that," Anna answered. "But alright, four and a half minutes. Go."

Anna rounded a corner with a loud giggle and lurched against the wall, knocking a painting off-kilter in the process.

"Ooops!" she said, waving the half-drunk champagne flute about. "Hiiiii!" she slurred, making her way down to the guards.

The pair of six-foot-plus muscle men took a quick glance at each other, then turned their attention to Anna. The auburn-haired girl just made out a black shape slipping in an octagonal window frame that no normal human body should be able to squeeze through. The Queen walked straight over to the vault door and waved a hand in front of the keypad. The light changed from red to green without a digitized ding, and Anna saw the black bodysuit saunter into the vault as if she were heading to the park for the afternoon.

She still had four minutes to go.

"Gentleman," Anna said, returning to her Irish accent. "It seems I've gotten quite turned around at your little stateside soirée."

"You're really not supposed to be up here, miss."

"Oh, but you see, Dr. Moore led me in here to the south wing. He wanted to show me his—" Anna giggled. "— private collection."

The security guards exchanged a smirk as Anna beamed up at them. Another giggle and she slurped gracelessly from the flute, dribbling little streams of champagne from the corners of her mouth.

"Oh, damn!" she said, as the liquid sopped the carpet. "Could you two gentlemen give a lady a hand? I've gone and gotten sloshed on this fancy grape juice of yours. We're beer drinkers back on the island, you know. Not big on the champagne."

"Two minutes," Anna heard in her earpiece.

Anna swooned and one man gripped her arm in his massive palm. Hopefully all of this would stay above water, or else she could very well see her humerus being snapped in half like a baby bird's neck. The guard walked her over to a cushioned chair in the corner of the alcove.

"Thank you. Would you mind terribly if I sat, just for a moment? Sorry I missed mingling at the party, oh, more's the pity, but I just couldn't pass up seeing Dr. Moore's special paintings."

"I'm afraid we're not at liberty to discuss the art work, 'mam."

"It's not so shady as all that, certainly," Anna said, all giddy smiles and lazy movements. "You'd think a girl would know that a high society man like Dr. Moore would have enough connections to get his hands on some of those brilliant paintings. This whole affair is just out of those fairy stories, aye?"

The two men kept their eyes trained on Anna, the stouter one nodding in an authoritative manner.

"Would you like an escort downstairs?"

"Just, please, let me sit a minute, to collect myself."

"Thirty seconds," the raspy voice said in her ear.

Anna put a hand to her forehead, as if she were staving off a migraine. Through her fingers, she saw the Queen silently move from the door of the vault to the window she came through. Getting a glimpse of the woman's body in determined action, not obstructed by weary monitor light or the darkness of a late evening, Anna was impressed. Slim lines that tapered into an hourglass waist, sneaker-clad feet and the back of a fish-tail platinum braid nestled between strong shoulder blades.

And everything was fine until the Queen literally _dived _out the window.

Anna exhaled heavily, but played it off convincingly enough as a coughing fit. She kept the drunken charade going, wobbling a little as she stood.

"So, this way, right?"

"No 'mam, this hall," the guard said, turning her gently by the shoulders. "Dr. Moore usually entertains in his study."

"I do love to learn," Anna said, giving a flirtatious wave over her shoulder, champagne flute still dancing about in her hand. Once she was sure the men were unable to see her descent, she righted her gait and walked right down the grand staircase, not bothering with her wrap in the coat check room. She wasn't sure fifteen minutes was going to cut it for Carla Moore and her wait-staff dalliance. Not with Dr. Moore thinking he was going to be getting some fine young tail tonight.

_Marriage must be awful._

Keeping to the walls of the party, Anna made her way through the kitchen and snuck out the service entrance. Ten minutes and one broken heel later, Anna found herself back on the roadside at her black sedan, the Queen's massive white tech mobile parked opposite her car.

"You're quick," Anna said, the side door to the van sliding open.

"And you talk in weird voices. A lot," the Queen said, holding out her hand.

"That a girl!" Anna squealed, and slapped her extended palm.

The Queen dropped her hand instantly, rubbing the struck extremity with her other gloved hand.

"Why— what was that for?"

"A high five?" Anna asked.

"A what?"

"A. High. Five?" Anna said, confused by the other woman's astonishment. "You know, that thing that people do when they're excited? When they did a good job?"

"Oh yes, right. A… high five."

"I'm going to go out on a not-so-short limb here and wager you've never had a high five before?" Anna said.

The Queen grunted. "I merely wanted my ear piece back." She extended her hand once more, her fingers barely curling, as if she would snatch it away if Anna tried any more funny business.

"It's just telling," Anna said. "I study people, you know, for what I do." Noticing the twitch in the woman's face gave Anna a bubbly satisfaction that had nothing to do with the champagne. "And you are—"

"I know. Strange."

"Fascinating."

And then the woman surprised her, leaning down into Anna's personal space with all the restraint of a savage. She didn't touch her, but hovered, exploratory, as if human interaction was as foreign a concept as snowmen in summer. Extended like an acrobat from the interior of the vehicle, she pivoted on the balls of her feet and used her arm to anchor herself to the van's interior. She got right in Anna's face.

"I really don't care what you think of me," the blonde said, low voice triggering a series of perplexing goosebumps at the back of Anna's neck.

Anna was none too thrilled with her physical reaction.

"Sure, fine, whatever."

Anna dug the plastic out of her ear.

"So you got the statue? And you seemed to have cracked that vault in no time… I know a guy who runs a mean hacking software, but he'd need two days to infiltrate a system like that."

The Queen gave a noncommittal shrug and placed the EPs into a cushioned case.

"I retrieved the statue," she said, and pulled the white marble man out for confirmation.

"I don't really like it in miniature," Anna offered. "It loses some of its grandeur, wouldn't you say?"

"I don't know."

"You have to have an opinion."

"I'm not paid for my opinions. I'm being paid to get this piece to Hans Westerguard. Now, do you have any other idle prattle you wish to foist upon me tonight?"

Anna put her hands on her hips. "Sorry I had to subject you to my idle prattle. I would say it was a pleasure working with you, but even a shifty little imposter like me can't stomach that big a lie."

"It doesn't have to be pleasurable. It's a job."

"That doesn't mean it _can't_ be pleasurable."

"As the chances of our meeting again are less than likely, I don't see the point in arguing with you about this. I'll get the statue to Hans, and he will distribute the appropriated funds accordingly. Good evening, Sarah."

"Good evening, your _majesty_."

Anna turned on her heel and climbed back in her sedan. She was so incensed that she had to talk her way out of a speeding ticket on her way back to the city.

She definitely did not like that woman.

_Right?_

* * *

_A/N: Just wanted to throw a huge thank you to all of the followers of this piece. I know this is starting sort of slow, but there's a lot of background I'm getting out of the way so that things will pick up a little later. Would love to hear your opinions on their first interaction; I know it's a little OOC, but AUs tend to go that way for me. Anyway, still love writing them together. It was quite fun teasing out the tension. _


	6. Diamonds Are a Girl's Best Friend

_I don't own Frozen._

* * *

_She definitely did not like that woman... right?_

* * *

Which is why seeing the Queen at a corporate event not a month later had Anna bouncing between giddiness and revulsion.

She had almost expected, not _hoped_, exactly, that she would see the Queen at one of Cartier's private functions. Anna was on a job, her own job for a client currently sitting pretty in a South American beach house in a country with no extradition policy. There would be an electronic transfer into one of her alias's Cayman Islands account if everything went smoothly. So what if Anna had been taking more high profile jobs concerning jewel acquisition as opposed to painted canvas? So what if she'd done a completely random bit of research that just so _happened_ to focus on exotic diamonds domestic and foreign, and whether their location was anywhere within her area of operations? So what if (after four weeks of preoccupation with a woman who had done nothing but grate on her last nerves) she felt a swooping sensation in the bottom of her stomach at seeing that platinum ponytail?

It was probably just indigestion from the sushi bites the caterers were serving. It certainly wasn't anticipation, or excitement. There was a negativity fluttering about in there that bordered on apprehension, but then again—

Anna covered up a belch.

Definitely the sushi.

And besides, Anna was nothing if not a consummate professional. Personal matters did not get in the way of the job at hand. And she was here for a client.

But with the Queen here, well…

_It might not be as easy as she hoped._

Anna readjusted her headset and pretended to fiddle with her mic pack.

"Janene?"

"Yes, Mr. Donahue?"

"Everything set for the Carazolla showcase?"

"Yessir. Should I tell them to bring it out?" Anna had made her way on staff at Deburque's, a subsidiary of Cartier located on the upper east side. With a little bit of hard work, one stellar fake resumé, and her persuasive talents, she'd been named assistant manager of tonight's showcase after little more than two weeks with the store.

"No, not yet. Best let the buyers stew before we bring out the big guns. We've already hit the ten million mark on the silent auction alone."

"Bested our projections by fifteen percent," Anna said to her 'supervisor'. "Congratulations, sir."

"Another fifteen minutes, and then you can get the movers."

"Yes sir."

And this was the moment she caught sight of the Queen, weaving in and out of stuffy old ladies and gentlemen dressed in their finest, surrounded by one of the grandest jeweled collections this side of the Atlantic. They were all here for the Carazolla, a 95 carat yellow stunner with pink undertones framed in a necklace that weighed close to nine pounds. The Queen kept her eyes on the emeralds, the rubies, the pearls and the Alexandrites, head ducked and eyes averted as she silently served drinks to the patrons.

Anna wanted to rattle her early so as not to undermine her own plan.

"Mr. Donahue?"

"Yes, Janene?"

"I'm going on break for ten minutes. I'll be sure and have the display set at presentation time."

"See that you do."

_Time for improvisation._

Anna walked over to the open bar on the far side of the room, setting her clipboard down with a loud _thwack_. She leaned an elbow against the mahogany slab as she propped herself on a swivel stool, nudging the Queen's arm while the blonde refilled her serving tray.

"Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine."

"I'm sorry, I don't— you," the Queen said.

"Me," Anna smiled. "Enjoying the party?"

"What are you _doing_ here?" she asked, stuffing several napkins into her short black apron. She'd skipped the braid this time, platinum strands held up in a high ponytail and minimal makeup. White button-up tucked into black pants equated to traditional catering wear.

"Working, of course. I expect the same as you," Anna said. "Though I never would have pegged you as a server for your day job."

"You know this isn't my day job."

"So you _can_ infiltrate without hanging from the ceiling rafters?"

"Just don't get in my way."

"Little ole me? Whatever do you mean, your _majesty_?"

"Stop that, you know exactly what I'm talking about."

"You're here for the Carazolla."

The Queen started wiping down an already pristine bar with a cloth.

"You know there are seismic sensors on that thing," Anna said.

The Queen gave her a look that could kill a puppy.

"I should know, I recommended them," Anna turned her nose up at the comment.

"Why would you make it so hard on yourself?" the blonde asked.

"It's not hard to make the puppets dance when you're the one pulling the strings, sweetheart. I've been in with Deburque's long enough to hack the system."

"Electronics?"

"The _human_ system, Queenie. Manipulating people is so much easier than manipulating machines. And that one over there?" Anna pointed to a sweating Mr. Donahue, checking his watch every fifteen seconds. "Hacked."

"So you think you've got this one all wrapped up then?"

"I'd like to say so, yes," Anna said, swiping a long-stemmed glass of some unknown drink from the Queen's tray. She toasted the blonde woman with a tilt of her lips, just to antagonize her.

"May the best woman win," Anna said.

The blonde pirouetted and shuffled through the crowd. She didn't stop to allow the older man calling for a scotch to take the tumbler on her tray.

_Looks like my timetable just moved up._

Anna chased after her, making sure to avoid the worrying eyes of Mr. Donahue. She found the blonde in the empty holding room, unsurprised to see that the electronic pad lock at the entrance had been disabled. She likewise noticed that the seismic sensors had been completely destroyed.

"What do you think you're doing?" Anna asked the Queen, who was staring at the glass Carazolla display case, wonder in her big blue eyes.

"What does it look like? I'm taking the diamond."

"Not so fast," Anna said, and mashed a button on a remote in her pocket.

Green laser beams sprouted from the walls like oddly digitized vines, freezing the Queen in the middle of her stride.

"Make one move and the motion sensors go off, security swarms," Anna smiled wryly.

The Queen took stock of her surroundings, maneuvering the edge of her ponytail into the path of the laser beam. She almost started when the beam sizzled the ends of her hair.

"Oh, and did I mention? They're _lasers_. As in, make a move and you'll look like last week's left over sashimi. Another one of my special recommendations."

The Queen's shoulders lifted in a slow wave, the woman rolling her neck around its axis in some practiced motion that had Anna's gut dropping in disbelief.

_Surely she wasn't going to…_

The woman lifted her arms and nimbly jackknifed her body forward, performing the most controlled front walk over Anna had seen outside of a gymnastics studio. The Queen proceeded to navigate the indiscriminate web of laser beams, lithe frame tunneling into and over gaps with poise and simmering strength. Anna could only imagine how taut her abdominals were, how much core strength the woman would need to alter her center of gravity so effortlessly. The blonde lifted a leg, nearly 180 degrees in the air from her opposite extremity and twisted over a beam.

Anna couldn't help but gasp, and the woman turned to throw her an obnoxious look as she inched toward the Carazolla.

_She was just… so… bendy_.

Anna's grip tightened subconsciously, half-moon marks from her manicured nails digging into the flesh of her palm. Her stomach flopped, and she did not care to analyze why her breaths turned achingly shallow as she watched the Queen shimmy between a particularly nasty-looking maze of near parallel beams. The woman bent over, nose to knee in those tight black pants, and somersaulted forward, rising to her tiptoes in a relevé so gracefully employed Anna swore the woman was part sprite. A final hurdle and the Queen was at the glass display case, pulling a small diamond from a pouch tucked underneath her shirt.

_Diamonds cut glass_.

She placed a suction cup on the front of the case and used the pointed tip of the diamond to draw a circle on the glass. Popping the glass barrier from its hold, the Queen plucked the Carazolla necklace from its stand and turned to face a stunned Anna.

Anna had been astounded before, but she'd never been so… _squirmy_ after it was all said and done. She'd not moved a muscle, but Anna felt her pulse thundering, her expression shifting from antagonism to unmitigated awe. She was trained to feign emotion, to cover her real feelings. But this? This was unprecedented.

The woman twirled the necklace on her finger, pulling Anna from her thoughts.

She was still on a job. Anna still needed that necklace, and she needed to stall.

So she started with a sarcastic slow clap.

"What?" the blonde asked.

"Impressive. What else do you have up your sleeve?"

"Four triple A batteries, copper wire, about five grand in small facet clear cuts—"

"That was rhetorical," Anna whipped the remote control from her pocket once again, lasers dissolving at a touch. "And as impressive and insane as you are, you're still not taking that diamond."

"I am NOT insane."

"You just paraded through a field of laser beams that could have sliced your torso in two."

"It's about maintaining control."

Anna affected a British accent, falling back on one of her old favorites. "I've cut off your arm! No you haven't! Just a flesh wound!"

"And you think I'm insane?"

"Seriously? You don't know the black knight? Monty Python?"

The Queen stared at her with the diamond dangling in one hand, head returning to that cocked angle that Anna was tempted to call her 'default mode'. Anna sighed and slapped her hands to her sides.

"I can't let you walk away with that diamond."

"Well, you're not getting it from me."

"Want to bet?"

"Is this yet another taunt, or a true wager? I'm not one to gamble, as you know, but the odds are stacked heavily in my favor at the moment. I do have the diamond in hand."

Anna wondered if the woman's alabaster cheek could turn paler. She was certainly going to try to make her blanch.

"Yeah, but I've got the remote. Security!"

Milliseconds later, three large men sprinted into the room.

"Quick, she's got the Carazolla!"

The Queen made to run but there was only one exit, and found the diamond being wrestled from her grasp as the large men subdued her with plastic zip ties at her wrists.

"Here you are, Miss Janene," one of the guards said. He handed the diamond necklace over to Anna. "Mr. Donahue is ready for the presentation. We can deal with her."

"Don't go to Donahue just yet. It'll only make him more nervous. Can you notify the authorities?"

"Yes mam."

"Wonderful job gentlemen!" Anna studied the necklace, gasping at a flaw that wasn't there. "But I think she's removed the clasp. You should search her."

The woman's eyes went wide as an owl's and Anna waggled her eyebrows mercilessly. Anna nudged the men to the center of the room, the Queen tied up securely between them.

She then pressed another button on her remote, cutting the security feed while simultaneously reactivating the lasers.

"Janene!"

"Sorry boys, you'll probably be stiff in the morning," Anna said, slipping the diamond into her pocket. "And as for you…"

The Queen had already severed the plastic tie restricting her hands on a searing laser beam, and looked to be calculating the best way in which to contort her sinfully dexterous body to assure escape.

"You remember how I said jobs could be pleasurable? Case in point. But…" Anna walked up to the perimeter of the beams, throwing the most challenging, smug stare she could conjure at the Ice Queen. "I'd be lying if I said this wasn't fun. We should do it again sometime," Anna taunted, skedaddling into the alley outside.

Anna left before she saw the Queen's genuine grin grow, spine arching sharply as she started her maneuvers. The imprisoned guards could only stare as the blonde woman circumvented a dangerous roomful of lasers. The beams remained active and backup didn't come to relieve them for another two hours.

* * *

_A/N: teeheeheehee... oh, this was quite fun writing. Would love a review if you had fun reading. More to come!_


	7. Jane Doe

_I don't own Frozen._

* * *

"OLAF!"

The Queen landed on all fours in the white room, one knee tucked up under her body, the other bearing the brunt of her weight, arms spread for better distribution. The only way in was through the ceiling.

_Better that way. Safer that way._

She rolled her body up, spine unfurling like a depressurized accordion. Audible beeps and boops sounded from speakers hidden in the room as the woman strode toward her nondescript couch. Fiddling with the black harness situated around her hips and waist, the woman threaded several feet of black rope through a carabiner hooked on the contraption. Detangling herself, she flipped headfirst over the arm and sunk into the cushions, curling into the fetal position.

"Olaf?"

A small, lumpy mass of digitized personal assistant fell from the ceiling in holographic precipitation. Shaped from jet blue lines and nothing short of technological magic, the short, pudgy, digital creature pulled a holographic tablet from the clear confines of his incorporeal chest. He pushed the center of his square-framed glasses up the bridge of his nose and smiled dopily at the blonde girl on the couch.

"Hi Jane!"

Jane flopped over, face down, mumbling into the pillows.

"Jane, I didn't quite catch that. Did you get the Carazolla?"

Jane lifted her arm and yellow-white sparks of electric energy shot from her fingertips, hitting the blank wall to her right. Only, the wall wasn't blank. Like a droplet rippling over a puddle, her energy emission spiraled outward in kinetic waves, triggering devices, screens and a series of satellite maps and grids that displayed the five New York boroughs.

"Ruuuurrrassseeerrroooooorrrreeeeee."

"Jane, you're talking into furniture again."

"I said, 'run a search for me'."

"Oh! Sure, why didn't you just say so?"

Jane flipped back right-side up, pulling her black gloves tighter over her fingers. She swirled her hands in the air and a display formed an arm's length from her face, like a floating, holographic desktop. The gloves were warm on her hands, the miniscule platinum wires connecting the circuits always in danger of overheating. She would have to fashion herself a new set soon.

"Parameters, Jane? Job-for-hire or one of your jewel escapades?" Olaf asked.

"Neither. Put it in the personal file."

"You mean, with the rest of the search material—"

"Yes. For now. I'll type an info tree for it later."

"Still, Jane. Parameters?"

"Personnel search. Female. Caucasian. Nationality… unknown. Age, seventeen to twenty-two. Hair color…" she had to stop herself from saying 'melting sunset'. "… copper. Well, auburn. Though that could be dyed."

She paused, recalling the face. Numbers and structures floated beneath her closed lids, information recall so precise she could calculate the angle of a cheekbone, measure the diameter of a pupil.

"Yes, auburn. Bits of red recessive genes prominent with fare freckled skin. Eyes…"

_Charismatic? Uninhibited? What color corresponded to careless joy?_

"… blue. Known links within the past two weeks: Deburque's Jewelers, Cartier affiliates in Manhattan. Alias 'Janene'. From three weeks, five days ago, connections with the Irish Mitchell Scholarship Foundation, Dr. Owen Moore, NYU and Boston College. Alias 'Sarah Conner.' Check the FBI and CIA lists for cons with multiple AKAs. Oh, and anything to do with fine art."

_Shit. What else had she said that night? _

Hanging bat-like from the third floor eaves of the Moore mansion a month ago, Jane had done her level best to drown out the girl's nonsense cover story relayed through her earpiece. It wasn't real; none of it ever was when she worked with grifters. She didn't particularly care for them, the kind that lied straight to your face. She much preferred her style, in and out, no muss no fuss. Sometimes literally flying under the radar. And listening to the girl shamelessly throw herself at a man that could have been her father had her stomach churning. And not in the good way, like it did when she was leaping off of buildings, repelling down skyscrapers, crawling through air ducts, dipping over laser beams. This was a nauseated churning prompted by young women whoring out their company to get what they wanted.

But why this girl needled her more than usual…

It wasn't even the fact that she had bested her at the Deburque showing.

_Well, maybe. No one's ever done that to me before._

That was part of it, yes, the blatant challenge in the tilt of her chin as she waltzed out that side door with the necklace in her hand. Jane should've kept her cards closer to her vest as far as her acrobatics were concerned, but she wasn't going to stay _trapped_ by those beams. And disarming them with her… _gift_… well, that was out of the question with a witness. She had needed to regain control of the situation, so her hands, as well as her back, her legs, her arms, just all of her body, had been compelled to move. She didn't mind hiding or hovering in corners for a job, but hell if she was going to be _forced_ into one.

And by someone her own age! Or younger! For as far as Jane was aware, she was the youngest female operating at this level on the global scale. She'd seen the random pickpocket, foster runaways trying to pull the wool over the eyes of a trusting stranger. Amateur kids performing an inelegant Ponzi scheme. But this girl was being hired by the elite, hobnobbing with mobsters and senators and society men much too crooked for the innocence the girl seemed to emit. But that was the crux: the girl was no innocent. No innocent would leave four people stranded in the confines of searing laser beams. No innocent would make off with a necklace worth millions.

So Jane needed to keep an eye on her.

The girl was just like Jane; nefarious and unprincipled underbelly protected by a convincing armor of guiltless fake identities.

She was just like Jane.

_She was just like Jane_.

No.

No one was just like Jane. Sure, the unidentified bodies in potter's fields shared her name, Jane Does literally lining grave markers from here to the west coast. But Jane knew, positively, that none of those women could do what she could do. Surely. Because someone who could manipulate technology, hack the Pentagon systems at age eleven, NASA at twelve, Interpol at thirteen, reroute satellite trajectories, snap and strike a spark off her thumb—

Someone like that wouldn't die unknown and unrecognized in an unmarked grave, right? Someone that dangerous, that treacherous… even if people feared her they at least knew her. Even if she was alone, had been alone for as long as she could remember… since the accident… even if there was absolutely no record of her existence, no birth certificate, no fingerprints, no physical trace that she even existed, she was still worth finding, right? She was here, wasn't she? She walked and breathed and acted.

_But I don't really live._

_So how could they ever find me?_

If she was special, wouldn't they come looking for her? Wouldn't she be able to find them, with all the access she had to every database in the wired world, all the birth and death records, the DNA samples, the files at the social security office… She'd be able to find them. They were still out there _to find_, right?

_Right?_

Wrong. She didn't even know who she was, let alone who her… her _family_ might be. The search had never seemed more fruitless, more hopeless than these times when Jane wallowed in self-doubt. And with her self-imposed isolation these episodes were becoming more frequent.

_To protect the public. To protect myself from what they'll do to me. Win-win._

No matter how many times she said it she still didn't believe it.

So, to buck herself up as best she could, she'd go out on a special mission. Pick up something shiny along the way to smooth over her emotional wrinkles. And maybe get a little more intel on the girl from Deburque's along the way.

_Call it a special project._

"Anything, Olaf?"

"Maybe."

"Something more definitive, please."

"Is this her?" Olaf asked, as a fuzzy photograph of what might have been the auburn-haired girl popped up on the tech wall opposite Jane's couch.

"Can we get a better shot of the face?"

"Give me a minute… there!"

"Yes. That's her. Run it through the facial recognition software."

"Running."

A progress bar popped up above the girl's face as data was being tabulated, terabytes upon yottabytes of information whizzing through the electronic byways of Jane's supercomputer. The green column filled in at 100%, and then the information screen was flooded.

Pictures of the girl at stoplights, airport lounges, museums, hotels, restaurants, all with sporadic date and time stamps, all with the girl in varying stages of adolescence, all over the country. One file in particular caught her eye.

Jane reached into the thin air and shuffled several pictures aside on the screen, her wireless gloves linked through her own coding to the wall in front of her. She zeroed in on the Interpol file compiled on the young art thief.

"Wow," Jane said.

"What is it?"

"She's good. Much better than I thought."

"Who's good?" Olaf asked.

Jane simply swiped through more files and pictures.

"Sarah Conner, Janene Melnitz, Danielle Linbsk, Gracie Lou Freebush, Brigid O'Shaughnessy, Regina Georgio, Jessica deLapin—"

"Who are those people?" Olaf asked.

"Not people. One person. But those names… Run a comparative information tracker scan on every federal database file with her aliases, see if we can get something more consistent."

The computer responded accordingly, a headshot of the girl popping up.

Underneath it in one big, brass red letter was a capitalized _A_.

"A," Jane said.

"A… name?"

"I think her name is A."

"That's a silly name."

"It's probably not, but we might be working with an actual initial now. Known affiliations… Hans Westerguard, Kristoff Tröllen, Sven Deermehyer, Gaston Chasseur, Claude Frollo Débauché, the Khan of India, Shan Yu—"

"There's no connection with the Arabian peninsula."

"Olaf, you're overstepping. We've talked about this."

"Sorry," the digitized assistant said. "She just really gets around."

"And this is just a list of _known_ connections," Jane sighed. "Wanted for grand theft, larceny, espionage, breaking and entering, extortion, embezzlement, fraud, forgery, money laundering, etc."

"She might have more in her file than you, Jane."

"Everyone has more in their file than me. I don't leave anything behind."

"Yeah, but it looks like she left everything behind. There's so much information up there, there's no telling who she is. And which who did what thing. And what who stole which thing. Or who which… I've confused myself," Olaf said.

"Brilliant. She's flooded the system with information. Who's to say what's correct? Say they have evidence of the crime but they can't prove her identity. There's no one to link it to because she's protected herself with more aliases than the feds can keep straight! Did you run her prints through AFIS?"

"There's no prints on record for her."

"Really? Out of all of those names and they don't have anything?" Jane asked.

"Like you said, she's too many people."

"There has to be some sort of birth certificate."

"No records on file that your system can find. And yours is the best, you know," Olaf tried to console his creator. "Plenty of kids slip through the cracks and aren't recorded at birth. You know this better than anyone, so what's so important about her?"

"Nothing. That is, I don't think…"

"She's just like you, Jane."

"No one's like me!" Jane snapped.

"Sure she is. She's been so many people for so long, she probably doesn't know who she is, either."

Jane waved a hand and the system powered down. She rose from her chair and paced in front of the glass window that ran the length of the west wall. The blonde stared down at the New York skyline from what should have been a penthouse suite. But it was all bare; minimal, neutral furniture; electronics hidden away behind paneled white walls; self-destructing systems that would implode with any type of foreign bug sweep. She could only keep what she could carry on her at a moment's notice. Nowhere was home. She could be found at any moment, so she had to be ready to move. Perched up there, like some solitary goddess of the skyscraper, she felt like she could see the threats coming.

But what happened when the threats were wolves in sheeps' clothes? Like a pig-tailed girl in a Catholic school uniform, who pricked the edges of her mind like a needle. An injection of some wholly consuming chemical, the kind that made her synapses fire and her nerve junctions zing, an antibiotic cocktail that ridded her system of her stoicism. She couldn't help but _feel_, around the girl. Jane couldn't tell if it was negative or positive, but it was undeniably and overwhelmingly _present_.

"Thank you Olaf. That will be all for tonight."

"Goodnight Jane. Peaceful sleep."

Jane's head fell forward onto the window, energy sparks absorbed in the glass. Olaf was wrong about one thing: the girl was far too content with her lot to agonize over her identity. Hell, A had to at least know her own name. Every job was a play for her, from what Jane could tell in their limited interactions. But what she'd said to Jane at the Deburque showing:

_"I'd be lying if I said this wasn't fun_."

That was… enjoyment, right? And Jane had felt… something, at the astounded look on the girl's face when she had vaulted over the laser beams. Like recreational exhibition. It made her feel important. Impressive. As if someone could revere her in spite of the tech, notice her for the talents she had honed as opposed to the one she had been cursed with.

Jane tried not to think about it as she shed her clothes, limp garments littering the floor as she trudged to her bedroom. She collapsed on the mattress and tried to bury the feeling the girl inspired. Tried not to let herself grow accustomed to the sensation. Because she had felt it before, and it had left her wanting. Left her broken. Just… left her.

But try as she might, she couldn't quash it, couldn't tamp it down.

It felt like possibility.

* * *

_A/N: Goodness, that was quite a bit of clunky explanatory prose. We'll just throw our hands up and call it 'character development', shall we? So excited for all of these follows and favs, and every review makes me twirl about in a meadow of happy flowers. Or I would, if Elsa would thaw the country. Thanks everybody. Would love to hear from you! (I'll take conspiracy theories as well as constructive criticism!)_


	8. Once More with Feeling

_I don't own Frozen._

* * *

Four weeks later, and Jane was standing atop the green-slate roof of the Trump Building, nine-hundred feet of dead air space between her skeleton and the pavement of Nassau Street. She liked to sneak into this one building the most, transfer a few hundred thousand in funds, cash out a few bonds, rearrange some assets. Mainly because she didn't like that fake comb-over the man sported in all of his headshots in the _Journal_. Without knowing it, Mr. Trump had built and funded three different orphanages in Africa.

The air was crisp, clear, and charged this high. The distance dwarfed the city, twinkly lights blinking like fireflies in the countryside. It made Jane miss the nights she'd walked the fields, slept under the stars, climbed trees during soft southern rains. It had smelled better, less persistent, more open. She had been so young then. Too young.

And then the day came when Jane, near starving, had walked by an ATM. Cash just started pouring out. There weren't enough people around to notice. Being only eight, she had tried to shove the green notes back into the slot, fearing she had irreparably damaged the device. When the money kept coming she scooped it up in her threadbare pockets, finally visiting that St. Louis candy store she'd been eyeing for two weeks. She'd bought out the entire chocolate section and made herself sick.

Action. Consequence. In that order.

But she never had to sleep outside again. And something about that lack of exposure, knowing she could have anything, stay anywhere… it crippled her. Lost innocence at the hands of a necessary consumerism.

She gathered herself up and stopped thinking, double-checking the cinched knot at her harness, black ropes cascading over the edge of the building like stringy strands of hair. She shut her eyes and numbers flashed.

_Calculating…_

Fifty-second floor.

She started her descent, nimbly piloting her body into leveraged footholds while counterbalancing herself with her arms. Reaching the desired floor, Jane managed to unlatch a window and land in graying cubicle, the entire office powered down for the night. She navigated through the abandoned space until she reached the elevator. She pressed the button to call it, her hand remaining on the panel, eyes shut, numbers and circuitry swimming in her cranium.

When it arrived, Jane looked inside to make sure no one was there. Cameras, other floors calling she could disable. But not actual eyes. That required a separate kind of disarmament she wasn't comfortable performing. Riding the car down, she waited til about the tenth floor before climbing through the sky hatch. It reached the ground level and opened onto the lobby. The information desk clerk saw it open, empty, then shook his head at the unusual occurrence.

Jane was through the air duct and in the alley before the elevator doors slid shut again.

Because she had a supplementary assignment for her 'special project'.

She walked a few block east then turned north, hurrying past the two massive craters that marked the fallen towers. Jane had been so young when it happened; she vaguely recalled the fear of it all, not fully understanding the international implications at the time. She did remember thinking: _what if they worked there? What if someone in my family worked there, and I didn't get the chance to know them?_

The same for Hurricane Katrina.

The same for H1N1 confirmed in the states.

Wildfires in the west. Tornadoes in the plains. Flashfloods in the south.

The BP oil spill.

The Boston Marathon bombing.

An entire life spent not knowing whether the victims of a tragedy were actually related to you.

_No. Don't go down that spiral again._

Jane found it, some swanky open space on West Broadway habitually rented out to a higher clientele. This time an open event, some 'save the arts' campaign SUNY schools had thrown together. Student showcases experimenting in minimalism, with Mondrian's _Composition No. 10_ acting as headliner and public draw, on loan from the Tate Gallery in London.

She had studied the building before, and found easy access via a side fire escape and an easily picked window lock. It was a building trying too hard to be artistic, too focused on aesthetic and distancing itself from practicality. This distancing meant the architects and designers favored exposed triangular rafters, close enough together for Jane to skip silently from beam to beam, ever-present duffel bag over her shoulder. She sat on one of the beams, legs swinging while scanning the room. The spot-lighting in the space was selected for its ability to draw one's eyes to the art, not the ceiling. She was safe from discovery.

A bobbing flash of red caught her eye, and sure enough, the girl known as 'A' was meandering through the crowd. But something was different: her head was bent forward low over her chest, posture the poorest Jane had ever seen her walk with. Gone was her carefree stride; she walked in clipped trots, buttoned up to the ear lobe in a grey suit one size too big for her with a matching skirt that hit the middle of her shin. Other people were leaning in to talk to her, suggesting she had discarded her vocal projection. Her hair was in an unflattering nest at the nape of her neck, haphazard layers accentuating a pair of horrendous black glasses that doubled the size of the girl's eyes. Her shoes were clunky and her face was fixed in a permanent scowl.

Had Jane not known her, not seen her affect different personalities, different masks, she would never have recognized her. A's seamless ability to lose herself in a crowd made Jane feel uncomfortable. She wondered if it was jealousy.

Instead of having to hide from life, A got to live it unnoticed. Or noticed, if she preferred.

_A had the best of both fuckin' worlds._

Jane was instantly and irrationally pissed.

The lights in the building flickered. People started looking up, and Jane had to duck behind a center beam to avoid detection.

_Dammit. Get it together._

"I'm sure it's just a quick outage, nothing to worry about folks!"

There was a wiry, bespectacled man at the north end of the hall. A raised platform with a miked podium had been constructed for the showcase, and patrons were starting to gravitate in that direction.

"Perhaps we should get on with the presentation, then?" the man said into the microphone.

Jane watched as the portraits were abandoned, everyone turning their attention to the stage. She paced the beam, arms crossed, eyes alert. Her beam was situated at the rear of the group, the podium facing her; she oversaw the spectacle like an anxiety-ridden guardian angel. A few feet behind and below her, she heard noises. A man and woman in tailored business suits were moving an easel with some black lines and red and blue blocks on a canvas into position while everyone else was focused on the speaker. While everyone else was watching the speaker, Jane watched A.

And A was watching the easel.

Elsa was then struck with an idea. It wasn't planned. She had not run through the logistics. But—

She shut her eyes, and blue and green numbers rained underneath her lids, arch trajectories, rate of acceleration, 9.8 m/s2, hang time, recoil, factoring in added weight and relative dimensions— the piece was just over 2x1 feet— on canvas no less.

Jane opened her eyes.

The ruddy haired girl in a poor-looking skirt and blazer combo went to take a seat near the stage with two others.

"And now, a word from our presenters. We have here a student from our sister school in California, one of our own MFA participants, and Professor Dwight Carmel, a noted painter in his own accord. Miss Desmond?"

The man gestured toward the mic and Jane watched as A shuffled awkwardly toward the platform. She tripped going up the stairs, and Jane saw the collective shoulders of the crowd draw skyward in a wince. They all felt bad for the girl. She was harvesting a collective sympathy, probably to be exploited at a later time. A pulled out a crinkled piece of paper from the depths of her blazer and readjusted the mic, the thing squealing and shouting its protests as feedback filled the room.

"Sorry, s-s-sorry," A mumbled.

Jane's eyes' never left A. As she watched, Jane was systematically knotting her rope, rearranging the caribiners on her harness, checking the tension of her bungee cords. She moved back four beams so that she was hovering just behind _Composition No. 10._

A started talking. Jane wasn't much paying attention. She didn't want everyone to focus on A. That girl got attention whenever she wanted it. Jane didn't really want attention from the whole crowd, but messing with this girl… she wanted to do that.

Jane closed her eyes and extended her gloved hands, feeling the slight warmth, the familiar tingle of supernovas in her synapses, jolts and phantom energies stinging her tendons, her capillaries, her bones, her organs. She was her own closed circuit, but amenable to connectivity, if she focused enough.

The lights flickered again and died.

People started murmuring.

Jane jumped.

When the lights came back on, the bespectacled man was hovering over the microphone, guiding a shrinking A back to her position.

"As I was s-s-saying," the girl started, meddling with her paper, "—P-Piet Mondrian experimented early with cu-cu-cubism, a departure from—"

A stopped speaking, and looked directly where _Composition No. 10_ had been displayed not moments earlier.

Still speaking, A tilted her glasses down minutely, unnoticeable if you were unawares.

Jane was not unawares, and, with a cheekiness she hadn't felt in a decade, she jumped once more, winking at A as the bungee cord yanked her back up to the rafters. _Composition No. 10 _was propped safely behind the center beam.

A proceeded to have a coughing fit into the microphone, but then continued on with her speech.

Jane noticed A had lost her stutter. But the copper-haired girl finished her speech, voice an octave lower than it should have been, dark, uninspired, and angry.

A was angry. Her little plan had worked.

_Then why do I still feel like shit?_

Because her plan was petty. Jane had not played much with children, choosing instead to, well, survive during her early years. But even she knew the quid pro quo of 'you took my toy so I'm taking yours'. She was not a child; she had never been given that luxury. So her actions didn't sit well, didn't feel satisfying in the way she had hoped.

_What had she hoped?_

To shock A.

Not like that, not with her powers; but she held the distinct impression that she liked to show off… _for her_. Not for anyone, because so many are easily awed. But A was not. She was impressive in her own right. And something about possessing the esteem of your peer, your equal, your better, in some regards… it was fulfilling.

Fulfilling in a way that diamonds could never be.

Jane didn't need to piss her off. She didn't want her angry. She wanted her respect.

A finished speaking to beleaguered applause, slinking off the stage with her tail between her legs. She moved along the side of the crowed, inconspicuous, as the next speaker came behind her. He was not overtly charismatic, or even charming for that matter, but he spoke like Martin Luther King, Jr. following A's sorry speech.

The red haired girl sniffled below her, eyes dancing about at the patrons, glancing up to the rafters. She slipped by the two people who had put the easel in place, the rest of the room still focused intently on the speaker. A looked up.

Their eyes met, blue steel boring down into the sea.

A raised her hand, then, thinking better, dropped it. She gnawed at her jaw and exhaled heavily, raising her hands in a defensive position.

She mouthed 'you win' skyward.

Jane's stomach was in her throat, and she wasn't even bungeeing. She crossed her arms back over herself, staring down at the girl. Here, standing above her, holding her toy just out of reach, it could have seemed smug; the action was anything but. She hugged her elbows, tried to contain whatever this _feeling_ was, because it was overpowering. She had taken A's painting. But she truly wanted nothing more than for the girl to _like_ her, for some inexplicable reason. Jane shut her eyes and numbers flew, senseless, illogical, meaningless. Spurts of yellow zapped in the darkness and then, when she opened her eyes, the room was black once more.

She hadn't meant to do it. Maybe her body knew better than her mind. Some subconscious yearning for redemption.

Jane snatched the painting from its hold and crossed her arms over it securely, falling silently to the floor below. One swift inversion later and she had the artwork back on its easel, then rerouted the rope through the caribiner so that she could start climbing into the darkness.

Something brushed her shoulder, and her nerves nearly exploded. Jane held a death grip on the rope.

"Hey."

"Hi."

"Why'd you put it back?" A asked.

Jane tried to shrug it off. She would sound so desperately callow if she revealed she had done it for her. Jane wasn't quite sure she had done it for A. Maybe for what the other girl represented.

"I never wanted it. This was more of a lesson."

"What if I didn't learn it?" A asked.

"I'm not showing you again. We need to draw a line, and keep this civil. This nonsensical back-and-forth is detrimental to us both."

"Yeah, but it's _fun_."

_Fun? Was _that _what that feeling was?_

"I wouldn't know," Jane said soberly. "Take it if you want it, but know that we should end this before it gets out of hand."

"Why are you so uptight?"

"In case you haven't realized, we could easily be killed or incarcerated for the least severe of our actions."

"Don't," A said sharply into the darkness. Other people were still milling about, talking animatedly about generators and breakers and unreliable building management.

She didn't touch her, but A stepped closer to Jane, voice low in sibilant hostility. Her breath was so hot and forceful that it blew fine baby hairs against the blonde's ear. The darkness made things easier for Jane, like talking to A, standing next to A, concealing the bodily shudders A's breath was inspiring.

"I am grimly aware of that fact, but I do not, and _will_ not harp on it," A growled. "And I don't need you chastising me like some hypocritical older sibling."

"Fine then."

"Fine."

"Just—" Jane gripped the rope tighter, pulling away from the girl. The air felt less charged, and she could _breathe_ again. "In the spirit of criminal camaraderie, I urge you to be careful."

"Where's the fun in that?"

Jane couldn't stay, could barely stand. Her brain was flickering… or that might have been the lights.

She scampered up her cord and got the thing pulled back into the rafters, art patrons oblivious, auburn-haired girl frowning at the ceiling. Jane granted one final, blank glance back down at A, then turned and skipped over the beams to the fire escape. She didn't stop sprinting until she was five blocks away.

* * *

She was still over a mile from her skyscraper loft when the EP started beeping.

"Olaf?"

"Sorry to bother you, Jane, but you've got an incoming message from the supercomputer."

"How'd the source put it out?"

"Spammed nearly every Manhattan email, wide net circulation. Broadcasted through an ad, on a website for a Caribbean resort. It's data encrypted under one of the image files, and reroutes through servers with untraceable IPs. But when we run the encryption code through the processor, there's no doubt they're asking for you."

"How do you know?"

"Because the code translates to 'Ice Queen' to an infinite power. They want you bad," Olaf replied.

"What's the ad?"

"It's for… Caneel Bay Resort, on the island of St. John. There's some sort of corporate retreat-come-merger going on in two weeks."

"Company?"

"Seven Seas Trading. They're buying a cruise line."

"CEO?"

"Ursula Carroll."

"Current company standings?"

"Equivalent networth of an American Fortune 100."

"They're not U.S.?"

"Affiliated, but they're run out of Jamaica. The deal is taking place on U.S. territory, though, which could help them with their own domestic legalities if something shady is happening. The biggest corporation in the Caribbean, it looks like. Beat out Sandals and Atlantis and other resort-esque tourism conglomerates," the line went dead as Olaf processed more information. "Appears there's been several disputes concerning their board of directors. CFO Triton Carroll is trying to get his daughters in with corporate management."

"But Ursula's not going for it? She's his spouse or sibling?"

"Sibling. And the man's got _seven_ daughters, with grandchildren subject to trickle down inheritance shares. That split would tie up investments—"

"And I bet Ursula's not one for sharing. The company's at a tipping point. This would be the perfect time to strike… Anything else?"

"It's a big job, Jane. The estimated payout… you've never taken a job like this."

"Ballpark it for me."

"Upwards of seventy five million."

That number startled her. She almost had that, certainly had access to that, but that big a payout on one job? If everything went well, she could liquidate all of her assets, set up some legitimate accounts, maybe retire from this whole thing. Start a new life. Learn to _talk_ to people.

It was tempting.

"A job like this… it must be joint operations," she said. "Is that number split?"

"No. Seventy-five for all parties involved."

"But there are other parties?"

"Yes, Jane, that's why I wanted to tell you about it in the first place."

"What is it?"

"Whoever sent this out, they're calling for specific people. I think it'll be four, maybe five in on the whole thing. Jane… they want A in on it, too."

Jane stopped walking, stock-still under a street light. She hitched her duffel bag over her shoulder and hugged her arms across her chest.

_Inhale. Exhale. Repeat._

"Run three phantom codes with the outgoing message. Double back over NASA's IPs, just to make sure no one can trace it."

"So… that's a yes to the job then?" Olaf asked.

_What the hell was she doing?_

"Yes. I'll take it."

* * *

_Goodness gracious alive... did it seriously just take almost 20k+ words to get to the plot? I might have bitten off more than I can chew here folks... wild ride ahead. Would love a little love with that big square review box below you. Come on, you know you want to. I'll give you cookies! Eventually, maybe, probably not. Thanks for your readership though, as always! _

_*Additionally, I know nothing about computer terminology aside from what I hear on crime shows. Much of the dialogue concerning electronics is probably idiotic rubbish. Fair warning for any tech people out there._


	9. Caribbean Confrontation

_I don't own Frozen. And I think you're gonna like this chapter..._

* * *

St. John's, the U.S. Virgin Islands

The Caribbean!

Anna finished her third margarita and trotted barefoot along the sands of Scott Beach, one of seven private land holdings at the Caneel Bay Resort on the island of St. John. It was twilight, and a purple-orange sun sank dismally down over the palms toward the west, the north breeze off the water inducing excited shivers. She played footsie with the incoming tide, chasing and retreating, enjoying the peaceful seclusion of resort life in the off-season.

She had jumped at the opportunity when Hans had contacted her. A beach retreat and a seventy-five million dollar payout? Anna didn't care what she had to do for the job, she was there faster than you could say _luau_. And once she rolled that payday in with her current savings, tied them to her foreign investment prospecting schemes, arranged for her art collection to be transported…

She could take a break from all this. Anna was still young, she could still have a life. She was a thrill-seeker, sure, a bit of an exhibitionist, but that's what community theatre and bad karaoke was for. And with money like that… she wouldn't have to sacrifice adventure and luxury. Just nix the 'illegal' fragment, the life-endangering part, maybe give up the whole certain-death-at-the-hands-of-pissed-off-criminals element. And the most important aspect of early retirement: she could finally make a dent in her Netflix queue.

Anna continued running along the beach, ponytail flapping, cut-off denim overalls and bikini-top halter the most inconspicuous outfit she could assemble as a hip Malibu youth visiting Momsie and Popsie at their seaside chalet. She meandered through palm trees until she reached number twenty-two of the individual cabanas. Unlike other resorts (that kept all of their condos and rooms stacked atop each other in tall buildings like urban ant farms) Caneel Bay sprung for separate, family-sized cabanas. Rented at exorbitant nightly prices, but private, swanky, and unbelievably posh.

She pushed aside the screen door and saw Hans Westerguard, corkscrew in hand, twisting into a bottle of Reisling.

"From the motherland? You shouldn't have," Anna said, throwing herself onto a custom-designed sofa. She was starting to feel the margaritas, but she couldn't pass up Hans' selection. He was a somellier extraordinaire, in addition to an international criminal.

"I don't trust a white that's not grown in the Rhineland," Hans replied, a ship's decanter appearing in his hand.

"Please tell me it's been chilled."

"An eternal debate that you will always lose. I don't chill."

"It's the freakin' _Caribbean_, Hans."

"Well it's winter in Germany, and they say no chilling."

Two fancy pouring techniques later, and Anna was swirling the long-stemmed bowl of a glass in her left hand, toying absentmindedly at her ponytail with her right.

"So, any insider information you care to share?"

"I'd rather not begin the discussion until everyone arrives. That way we can avoid any redundant questions."

"Always the efficient," Anna said, sipping her wine. "Gotten to parasail yet?"

"I'm postponing the experience until my jet ski rental expires. Yourself?"

"Been sunbathing. Just wanted the opportunity to relax before I went to work. But the damn freckles resurface, no matter how much sunscreen I use. They're a plague."

"At least it's not melanoma."

"What's not melanoma?" A gruff voice called from the entrance way, the heavy tread of two men creaking against the teak floorboards.

"A's freckles," Hans responded, rising to greet the two gentlemen. "Kristoff Tröllen, I presume?" Hans extended a hand to the lumbering blonde. "And this must be Sven?"

The mute nodded, bulging biceps crossed over likewise bulging pectorals.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance," Hans turned on the charm. "I'm familiar with your work."

"No need for pleasantries, we know you're calling the shots."

Kristoff and Sven pushed passed the man, black, long sleeves and cargo pants clashing against Hans' aqua Polo and matching plaid boardshorts. They sat heavily in two chairs with bright yellow cushions. The wine had a buzzing effect on Anna, so much so that the Norwegian pair reminded her of obese bumblebees.

Sven grunted, looking at Anna's glass.

Kristoff translated.

"You got a beer?"

"White Reisling from the Daulle Farms, '94."

"So… no beer?"

Hans sighed. "I've got some Corona in the fridge."

"Can we get this started? I've got like, two more days to do some prep, and I want to know how much effort it's going to require," Anna whined, rolling her head to the back of the couch. She tilted the glass up to her lips, sweet, fermented grape juice tingling her taste buds.

"We're waiting on our fifth," Hans said.

Sven popped the Corona cap with his teeth, and took a swig.

"No need to wait, I'm here."

Anna turned at the voice, gasping when she recognized the raspy lower register.

The Queen was standing in the corner of the cabana, clutching that black duffel bag like a lifeline. She was in her catsuit again, tight black fabric everywhere. The beanie even made a reappearance. So did the gloves.

Anna was blindsided, displeased, and tipsy (not necessarily in that order).

"How long have you been standing there?" Kristoff asked the Queen.

"Long enough to know you're all borderline alcoholics."

"So I take it you don't want a drink?" Hans asked.

"No."

The Queen looked around the room, eyes shifting, finally settling on the only open seat.

Right next to Anna on the couch.

The blonde stalked to the furthest end and pushed two patterned cushions toward the middle, makeshift barrier securely in place. And, if that wasn't enough, she deposited her duffel bag on the couch, opting instead to balance precariously on the arm of the sofa, legs tucked under her body like a levitating Indian chief.

Hans was busy in the kitchen, gathering up papers to start explaining his plans.

Sven and Kristoff were exchanging grunts, torsos hunched protectively over their Corona bottles.

Which left Anna, staring purposefully at the Ice Queen. And all those jitters, that impressed feeling she had taken with her that night at Deburque's, her fury over the snafu at the minimalist exhibition downtown, that scintillating bubble of mystery— it all returned when the Queen looked her right in the face. Determined.

"Hi."

Anna raised her eyebrows knowingly and took a fortifying drink of wine.

"Hi? Hi, me? I didn't know we were on speaking terms. Unless you're here to tell me how 'dangerous' this is. That you have to 'teach' me something."

"You wouldn't stop staring, and, as I know I have nothing on my face, I thought I was supposed to address you."

"The robot recognizes social cues," Anna smirked. "What emotional program did you hack to figure that one?"

"Must you be so antagonistic?"

"Must you be so easily rattled?"

"You are insufferable."

"There's a string of gentlemen from here to Tokyo that would disagree with you."

"Yes. I'm sure they're _intimately_ familiar with all aspects of your person."

The wine may have been white but Anna saw red.

"What the fuck is _that_ supposed to mean?!" she shouted.

"The hell? Calm down, A," Kristoff said, rising.

"Hans, what the fuck do we need her for?" Anna seethed.

The Queen did not smile, instead choosing to quickly lock eyes with each person in the room. She cocked her head at Anna again, gaze scanning her overheated body. Anna could feel those eyes, ice blue and blank, studying her shoulder, the button hook on her overalls, the chipping red paint of her nails, the arch of her foot in her tan thong sandals. Like the blonde was judging the grainy sand stuck between her toes. That look swept back up her arms, and Anna just knew the Queen was scrutinizing her damn freckles.

It felt horribly invasive.

At Deburque's, Anna always knew she had the upper hand. And even at the art exhibition, Anna at least considered that a draw. But then the woman waltzes right into the cabana, unaffected, unconcerned, and destabilizes any notions of superiority Anna might have held with social awkwardness and affirmations of sobriety. It made Anna feel significantly _less than_. Which in turn made her furious.

"A, what's wrong with you? You got a problem with her?" Kristoff asked, moving toward the now-standing Anna.

"I'm the one who has legitimate concerns," the Queen retorted. "We're all criminals, but I've experienced a personal sleight at the hands of— I don't know, whatever your name is. Sarah? Janene? A, apparently?"

Anna did not like the blonde knowing her initial. It was one step closer to her name. Which was one step closer to her self, something Anna didn't even fully comprehend yet. She felt violated, and pretty drunk.

"Yeah, it's A," Anna fumed. "_A_ for 'about to kick your—"

"Woah there, feistypants," Kristoff said, jerking Anna up by the two denim straps of her overalls. She had to look the fool, hanging there in mid-air, struggling to no avail against the blonde behemoth. She only succeeded in intensifying her wedgie.

Hans slammed a stack of notebooks onto the coffee table, causing even Sven to startle.

"A!" he shouted. "And you," he pointed toward the Queen, who was watching the whole affair with mild disinterest. "I don't know what the fuck's going on, but you two best check yourselves at the door. This job is the biggest you will ever see, and so help me if some bitch fight fucks it up—"

He didn't need to finish. His face was red enough and his fisted hands were shaking.

"Just know that you are replaceable."

The Queen huffed irritably.

Anna felt Kristoff pull her closer to his body. Her sandaled feet returned to the ground, and the warm sensations in her head were subdued in the face of Hans' anger. She'd been on his bad side before. She did not care to revisit.

"Can I talk to you, please? Alone?" the Queen asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

Anna rolled her eyes and followed the other woman into the entryway.

"And dammit A, give her some of your clothes!" Hans yelled. "Between her and your mercenary pals in black, the whole island is going to have eyes on us!"

Anna exhaled and followed the Queen onto the front porch. Tiki torches were burning, and the Queen was as pale as ever in the tropical firelight.

"I'm not apologizing," Anna said.

"I never asked you to."

"I got that diamond. It was my job to begin with."

"We can sit here and argue claims to stolen goods, or we can put that aside and attempt to do something useful."

"I don't trust you."

"Nor I, you."

Anna turned and stomped to the porch swing, falling onto the suspended wood and bonking her skull against the linked chains. And the swing began swaying, as swings do, which was not great for Anna's head.

"You said I was easily rattled, but you get excessively flustered for a conwoman."

"It's only around you," Anna spat back. Her head was spinning so much she didn't notice the Queen's quirked brow. "You and your bendy little body, hanging off of buildings and hacking vaults like it's a fucking cakewalk. You're good at it and I give credit where credit is due but…" Anna rubbed her closed eyes with a forefinger and thumb. "… there is something about you that is completely unnerving. And I don't do well in the realm of the unfamiliar."

"Isn't that what improvisation is? Expanding on the unfamiliar, the unknown?"

"Perhaps in reference to content. But not structure. Even improv has rules; any low-level actor could tell you that."

"Well, I'm sorry I make you so uneasy, but there's nothing I can do about it," the Queen said, arms still crossed over her breasts.

"I don't know you well enough to work with you on something this big. I don't trust you not to take all our shares and split," Anna explained. "I know a merger like this requires wireless transactions, I'm not an idiot. And I know that the only reason they'd have the infamous 'Ice Queen' around is to siphon those funds directly into our accounts. But you could just as easily put it all in your own. Tell me I'm wrong."

"I can't."

Anna's voice turned raw: "It's what I would do."

The woman walked closer, hovering over Anna in that invading manner that suggested a failure to comprehend personal space. She bent over, pupils scanning Anna's face. Anna could smell her. It was the opposite of warm and sand. It was charged, cold and somewhat severe, her odor of fresh linen and mint discomfiting in its appeal; Anna once again blamed her hypersensitized nostrils on the alcohol. Her eyes crossed at the Queen's proximity, her focus readjusting as those stupid blue eyes drew nearer. This close, even in the dimness, Anna could see that the Queen's complexion was not as flawless as she once thought; more like moon-bleached, with a swath of faint freckles fanning out over her cheeks, cascading from the peak of her nose.

"You need to be quieter," the blonde said, kneeling on the dimly lit porch. Anna felt the swing hit the woman's shoulder. Some exotic bird squawked and palm leaves rustled. Anna couldn't stop staring at her.

"Why did you get drunk the night we were supposed to run over the plan?"

Anna couldn't answer. She frowned at her freckled knees, outward blemishes a manifestation of all her inner failings. She was covered in them.

_Shit. A lightweight and a philosophic drunk_.

"I only ask because you seemed to be drinking with intent. You were at the bar on Scott Beach for two hours before you came here."

"How did you know that?" Anna asked.

"I saw you."

"I didn't see you."

"Probably because you had your head in a salt-rimmed glass."

"How old are you?" the question was tumbling over her lips before she could stop it. Anna didn't know where it came from, but it seemed necessary to know. She conceded that she was inexplicably drawn to the woman, but even in her drunken state, Anna didn't trust her as far as she could throw her.

_But I want to_.

The Queen had put the painting back. She could have walked off, and sold the thing on the black market. Walked off, just to spite her. Why did she do that? What was in it for her? Almost like… extending an olive branch. Anna had not wanted to trust someone in a really long time. Which is why the terror of that want revealed itself in the form of deeply personal questions: How old are you? What's your name? Do you really hate me so much?

"I… I don't know," the Queen answered.

"What do you mean you don't know?" Anna asked.

"Just that. I'm not sure how old I am," the Queen said.

"Why?"

"Pieces of my memory are missing. I don't wish to go into detail."

"I'm eighteen," Anna said, eyes still on her knees. "I'm eighteen, and I've done more despicable things than you would care to know. I'm eighteen, and two of my only acquaintances are assassins. I'm eighteen, and I'm about to infiltrate one of the largest corporations in the world, and attempt to steal over three-hundred and fifty million dollars."

Anna looked to her right, and saw the blonde staring at the edge of the sofa cushion. When the Queen felt Anna's eyes on her, she returned the look, face softening for the first time since Anna had interacted with her.

She looked incredibly human.

"You're afraid," she said.

"Yes."

"You're eighteen, and you're afraid."

Anna nodded.

"I— I— why are you telling me this?" the Queen asked.

Anna shrugged her shoulders. "Maybe I'm just lulling you into a false sense of security. Maybe I'm manipulating you, like the conniving little bitch I—"

"No. Stop."

The swing creaked. The bird squawked again. And this time, Anna could hear the woman breathing.

Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.

_Mint_.

"I believe you have deeply-seated personal issues. I confess I have the same. You do not trust easily. I can appreciate that. But you're… that is, I… you…" The blonde pulled her beanie off, raking her fingers through her bangs. "Humidity."

"I'll get you some of my clothes."

"I notice you," she blurted.

"What?" Anna asked.

"From before, what I was trying to say, is that I notice you. You are a noticeable person, and that is not a bad thing. You've used that quality to your advantage, and I commend you for it. You stand out. What I'm trying to say, in some circuitous, inarticulate manner, is that you are good at what you do. I am good at what I do. I know of Hans, and his reputation. And I can only imagine what those two Norwegians can get up to."

"Your point?"

"My point being, we are the best at what we do. If anyone could pull this off and get out unscathed, it would be us."

"Us?"

"The collective, yes. It may not be coming across very well, but this is my attempt at comfort."

"Thank you, but I still don't trust you."

"Then trust yourself," the blonde answered. "Hans needed _all_ of us. You are integral to this job, which means I will be somewhat indebted to you. And vice versa. I told you I prefer to work alone, to avoid this obligatory reciprocity, but this job could… well, you won't have to worry about us crossing paths again. Jewels and art and money aside. I'd be out."

An incomplete silence followed, punctured by waves and nocturnal animal life. The chains on the swing squeaked persistently, every creak bearing down on Anna's shoulders like a brick load. The speech had died, for the time being, a paused moment in a comrade's presence. Until Anna got up the courage to extend her own olive branch.

"I want to quit, too," she confessed.

"Really? You seem to live for this," the blonde said.

"For some reason, in all the best movies, there's always an element of danger in the adventure. And I like adventure! Love it. _Indiana Jones_, _Harry Potter_, the _Princess Bride_. There's always something at stake. But I can still live with thrills and excitement without the looming threat of disaster over my head. After this job, I want to get out. Settle, somewhere."

"You could go to college," the Queen said.

"Or I could finally watch the rest of those _Veronica Mars _episodes."

"Or you could do that. It doesn't matter what, just… not this."

Anna nodded, gnawing at the interior of her jaw.

"We could've been friends, in another life," she whispered.

_It had to be the alcohol talking. That's the only reason she would say something so stupid, so revealing, so—_

"Why can't we be friends in this life?" the Queen asked.

_Well, that was unexpected_.

"I know you're not up on the whole 'interaction' thing, but you sort of have to trust your friends," Anna said.

"And we have established that you don't trust me."

"You don't trust me, either."

At the beginning of the conversation, the statements had been caustic, accusatory. Now, the women just seemed sad that they were true.

"Perhaps I could… work on that," the blonde continued, extending a gloved hand.

It shook, barely, and Anna looked at it skeptically.

"I'd like for the last hand I shake before incarceration to be a friendly one," the blonde quoted.

And Anna was done for. She was going to cry, if she wasn't careful, because hearing those words out of the blonde's mouth, the same words she had said at their first meeting, it meant something. It meant she was worth listening to. Not a character, not an alias, just her. Just Anna. And talking with the Queen tonight, revealing more of herself to the blonde than she had in as long as she could remember…

_Rule one of the grift: never offer the mark the thing he wants. Offer him the chance to get it. Because the chance, the whet appetite, is more tantalizing than the thing itself._

And this woman was offering her the chance to get the thing she wanted most in this life, the thing Anna had been striving to secure for years:

_Friendship_._ Stability. Trust._

Anna took the gloved hand in hers and shook it.

"Hi," the blonde said. "I'm Jane."

"A."

"Nice to meet you, A. Do you think you're ready to go inside and listen to Hans?"

"Yeah, but you better take good notes. I'm going to have one hell of a hangover tomorrow."

* * *

_A/N: You guys, I freakin' love all of you. Followers, I can't thank you enough! It might have taken a turn for the heavy in there, but I think this one ended on a bright note. Would love to hear your thoughts on the matter. Like, 'hey, that was good, but let's get to the meat of the issue'. Or, 'what the heck was with that bulky prose at the start', or even, 'Kristoff giving Anna an inadvertent wedgie is the stuff dreams are made of'. (Not that I'm speaking from experience). Or maybe I am. That image in my head of Anna suspended by her overalls and running midair is so. freakin'. caaaayoooooot. _

_show me a little love with that review box there... you know you want to... all the cool kids are doing it..._


	10. Morning Chats

_I don't own Frozen._

* * *

It was midday and Jane was tired. She was by necessity nocturnal, but this job would require her full faculties during daylight as well as evening hours. She still had another day to get her system regulated. But that day would be used to prep her devices, rig up her cloning software and viruses, input all of the diversionary traces and securely link Seven Seas Trading wiring route numbers with the team's personal accounts. Then they'd start the con and pray all ran smoothly over the course of the company's retreat-come-hostile-acquisition. Hans had said it could be done in two days. They just needed the account numbers, which were stored in the only vault Jane had never been able to crack:

The mind.

The mind of one Ursula Carrol, the Seven Seas Trading CEO.

Which is where A came in. The bulk of the con rested purely on A's performance, on her ability to extract those numbers from the mind palace of a corrupt business woman. Jane tried not to think about how the girl had passed out in a puddle of drool while Hans ran over the company's financials last night at the initial meeting.

But all of that was for tomorrow. And the next day. Jane was sort of looking forward to that venture, in light of what today's mandated agenda entailed.

_Shopping._

The blonde walked up to A's cabana door and jimmied the lock, disabling the electronic swipe with a wave of her hand. She walked in, eyes roaming the interior of the place, sensory perception heightened just a bit, extending, calculating… making sure there were no electronic bugs. Got to give it up to the Caneel Resorts. They valued their customers' privacy.

She crossed to the egg-shell curtains, soft linen over a floor-length sliding door. She pulled them back, opening onto a private beachfront. It was beautiful and blinding in the sunlight.

_The girl was not afraid of expense._

Jane heard footsteps and turned, A padding into the kitchen with half a toothbrush sticking out of her mouth. The girl's hair was mussed and poofy, her eyes a bit duller than the previous night but less glazed. Jane watched her take a glass from a wicker cabinet, fill it with water, swish and spit into the sink. The girl rummaged around in a bag on the counter and popped two pills, chugging the rest of her water, until she locked eyes with Jane and spewed the mouthful over the entire kitchen.

"Holy shit!" A gargled, coughing and spurting like a land-beached fish.

Jane tilted her head, and felt the edges of her lips sneak upward.

_Was this what smiling felt like?_

"How long have you been standing there? And why do you _do_ that?!" A asked.

"Not long. And do what?"

"Just… appear!" A waved her hand around in Jane's general direction. "With no introduction, or knock, or any alert as to your presence."

"I'm used to going unnoticed," Jane said. And she was. Why alert anyone to her presence if they weren't going to address her anyway? She'd perfected the art of self-camouflage.

"Well, from now on, if you ever want to talk to _me_, you can at least knock. I mean you're welcome to come right in. But 'knock knock knock, A, I'm here!' That's common courtesy."

"If we were planning on meeting anyway, what's the point? You said eleven didn't you?"

"There's eleven, and then there's _eleven-ish_," A explained, snagging her toothbrush from the side of the sink.

She moved from behind the counter to address the blonde without the barrier between them. It was only then that Jane realized the girl was not wearing pants under her t-shirt.

"Is that all you have, really?" A asked, pointing to Jane's ensemble.

She wore a pair of faded jeans and a grey, v-neck fitted shirt. Plain sneakers. Her black aviators held her bangs back out of her face.

"You're not wearing pants," Jane responded. "I'm fairly sure I'd win if we were put in a competition as to acceptable daywear."

"Daywear is the key. I just sleep in this shirt."

"Oh."

_That should have been obvious to Jane. But then again, she slept in the nude, so what did she know?_

"Well, pants would speed this whole affair up exponentially."

"So I'm not modest. Bits of the con life bleed into my personal character, no matter how hard I try," A answered, hands on hips. The hem of the shirt inched higher and Jane's gaze followed. A noticed, and her arms fell.

"I'm not one to harp on propriety," Jane conceded. "I have little regard or knowledge of what constitutes the personal sphere—"

A pulled her arm up and gestured to Jane, shaking the flat of her hand in an alien gesture. It made Jane twitch.

"So you _know_ you're a bit off?"

"Yes. I recognize it."

"But you don't change it?" A asked.

"Because I don't see any reason to. If I had to communicate more, then maybe I would. I'm just an expert at social avoidance, so I never saw need to perfect the trite rituals that constitute superficial interactions."

"Ohmigod!" A squealed, bounding up and down. She clapped her hands together and the lost light returned to her eyes. Jane liked the light, but it frightened her all the same.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm going to Eliza Doolittle you!" A chirped.

"I _beg_ your pardon!?"

"Oh, come on! You can call me Henry, I'll teach you fun accents, you'll get me my slippers-"

"You're not wearing slippers!"

"Beside the point. We're basically _Pretty Woman_-ing you already today. Does that make Hans Richard Gere? It certainly doesn't make you a prostitute—"

"Okay," Jane said, clutching her arms over her chest. "I don't know what you're talking about, nor do I want to, but I think we should get this day started so it can be over with sooner."

"Oh, seriously Jane. Shopping is _fun_."

Jane didn't see the point in disagreeing with her. She was certain it was a verbal battle she would lose. "I'll just be out here," she gestured to the private deck leading down to the beach. "When you're ready we can go do whatever it is we're going to do."

"Alright. Give me ten minutes."

Five minutes later, Jane felt something soft hit the back of her head. And then something significantly more solid, which hurt.

"Ow!"

"Sorry. Sunscreen. You're gonna need it."

"I—"

"I'm not walking out of here with you dressed and ready for fall in the States. We're on a beach. Now put that sunscreen all over, especially your face and shoulders. Or you'll end up looking like me," A said, poking at her freckled arms.

"I have some. They're not so bad."

"Yeah, but on you they're a highlighting feature. On me, they're like this giant mass slowly consuming my body. A pigment monster of harrowing proportions."

"I… uhm. Freckles aren't catching. Nothing so debilitating as, say, necrotizing fasciitis. They're a hereditary trait, usually signified by a parent with the X—"

"I don't care!" A singsonged. "Now go change."

Jane stood up and wandered down the hall of A's cabana to the washroom. She had given thought to changing where she stood, but something stopped her. It might have been decorum. Yes! She recognized it this time. Plus, that was a lot of bare leg for one kitchen to see in less than half an hour. It seemed unsanitary.

She stripped and eyed the outfit: blue denim shorts shorter than she had ever seen and a baggy tank top with a graphic print of what was probably a band logo. The shirt was fine, but the jeans…

"A?"

"Whassamatter?"

"I can't… quite… my proportions are significantly different than yours."

"Huh?"

A barged into the bathroom with a mascara wand at her eye, then broke out into a wide smile. Jane had been struggling with the fly and button, the fabric refusing to come together over her hips.

"Wow! Who would've known under all that black the Ice Queen had a booty?"

"I'll thank you not to mention my 'booty'."

"We're going clothes shopping. We're gonna have to talk about your butt. Or," Anna stuck her nose in the air, saying with a snooty accent, "_posterior_, if you prefer."

"I do prefer. But why?"

"Do you know your measurements?"

"Uhm…"

"Thought so. Here, I think I've got something else."

A returned seconds later with a blue skirt. Similar to the previous article, but the zip was at the side. Jane traded the shorts for the skirt, feeling unnaturally comfortable pantsless and alone with the girl she'd come to know as 'A'. Their little tête-à-tête last night on the swing at Hans' cabana had been illuminating in the informational sense, and had kept her up thinking the majority of the night. A wasn't an easily solved equation; too many factors in play, too many unknowns for the time being. But Jane had never met an equation she couldn't figure, and the combative charges of their conversations brought out her own stubborn streak.

_A was just another safe. One she couldn't wait to crack._

Jane pulled the skirt over her hips and let the waistband rest there. When she zipped it up, the skirt crawled north toward her waist, the panel smooth along her abdomen and flaring when it hit the hips, elongating her legs but still covering what needed covered. It was still a little short. You could hardly see the hem underneath the over sized tank.

"A?"

"Yep?" she was back at the doorway, still smiling.

"Is this… right?"

"Almost, here. Unzip it a little." A charged toward Jane, extending her hands.

Jane retreated.

"What? C'mere and let me fix it."

"You don't need to touch me."

"Do you have some transferable flesh-eating bacteria?"

Jane eyed her skeptically.

"I know what necrotizing fasciitis is, know-it-all," A said.

"No, I don't have a flesh-eating bacterium."

"Then stop whining and get over here!"

"But I—"

"Get!"

Jane walked over to A, who then proceeded to stuff the tank top into the waistband of the skirt. Which meant she had her hands underneath Jane's skirt. Which means her fingers brushed her navel.

Jane yelped.

"Oooookay, I understand," Jane said, disentangling herself from the limb-lock. She finished tucking the piece into the skirt, sliding the zipper back into place.

"Alright, now juuze it a little," A instructed.

"I really think you just make up words."

"Give it a little juuze! A little oomf! Like this," A advanced, and Jane retreated again. "I'm not gonna put my hand down your skirt. God, so jumpy."

A tugged gently at the tank top, which ballooned just the slightest, high on her waist. The skirt fell out like a bell, the lines and cinches of the ensemble the perfect complement to an hourglass shape.

"Now you look like a lady ready for some fun in the sun!" A said. "Did you put the sun screen on?"

"Not yet, just a moment, please."

"And you thought _I_ would take forever."

A hurried out of the room.

Jane looked down at the bottle. An SPF smelling like some god-awful concentration of faux coconut and banana, with a slew of chemicals that promised softer skin but probably damaged the melanin in the process. She sighed and removed her gloves, pouring a dollop into her palm. She rubbed it all over, the white lotion only a shade or two paler than she. Jane wondered what the sun would do to her skin. She'd not been out this much during harsh daylight hours since she'd been back on the Arabian Peninsula, when she'd spent that summer with—

_No. Not now. That's done. I said I would never go back. And I'm not._

Rolling her gloves back over her alabaster fingers, she couldn't stop herself from looking in the mirror. She had her arms pulled tight across her chest, but released them, cocking her head in study. She stepped back further, wanting to get the full view. And she sort of… liked it. Jane hadn't worn a skirt in _ages_, and it was nice not having the material constricting her calves.

_Calves that are pretty damn svelte, by the way._

She stuck her head out into the hall to make sure the coast was clear, and then, for some reason she could not fathom, _twirled_. The skirt flew out and she gasped, covering her hands over her face. She did a one-eighty, smoothing the skirt down over her backside and… _juuzing_ the tank top back into place.

She was smiling. Big. Beaming. Shining. And she thought she was about to cry.

Jane had all but given up her femininity in lieu of practicality long ago. Had traded in touches for the type of security she thought she needed in confinement. But now, in the span of half a day, she had touched another person, willingly, and hadn't shocked her. It was just a handshake, gloved, but it was a big step. And then A had barreled in just now, caught her off-guard enough to sneak a tap at her abdomen, which felt so treasured and so missed.

And she was back in a skirt! A casual one, but a skirt no less. It made her feel good. It made her feel girly. Before she could stop herself, she yanked her ponytail from its hold. Her hair fell, like fog pouring over a ledge, long layers of platinum discovering their place on untouched shoulders. She raked her fingers through it and smiled again. She didn't even care if she had to go shopping. Just as long as she could feel like a woman again, not a criminal.

If only for a day.

* * *

_A/N: You guys, the reviews and feedback for this piece have been so **sincere**! I don't have a tumblr or anything to self-promote, so I never even expected it to get this much attention, which is why I have to thank you at the end of every chapter for being so awesome :D And I knew the concept was suuuuuuper AU to begin with, which is not everyone's cup of hot chocolate. Hot Chocolate! See what I did... nevermind. My point being, I don't plan on abandoning this story, now that the trajectory/outline is somewhat solidified in my head. Now I'm just nervous that I'll measure up to your expectations! _

_But if you wanted to review, that's totally within your rights. And, I mean, I'd really like it, and so would Jane and A. So don't do it for me. Do it for two criminal orphans with deeply seated trust issues..._

_Happy St. Patrick's Day, sláinte!_


	11. Trapped by the Trappings

_I don't own Frozen. Additionally, brace yourselves for the longest bit of fluff I feel comfortable writing for this piece.  
_

* * *

_Stop looking at her knees. Stop looking at her knees. Stop looking—_

"What's the problem?"

_Dammit. Busted._

"What, me?" Anna asked.

"Yes. You seem distracted."

"Really?"

"You did just run two red lights and narrowly avoided a scooter."

Jane uncrossed and recrossed one leg over the other in the passenger's seat, toying with the hem of Anna's borrowed skirt. If Anna hadn't known the woman was a complete social kamikaze, she would've sworn the blonde had done it on purpose.

"Well, you just keep messing with the skirt," Anna explained. "I mean, we're going to buy you new things if you dislike it that much."

"Quite the opposite," Jane said, fluffing it out around her shapely thighs, creamy quads melding into moon-round kneecaps.

All those black pants and turtlenecks were great for sneaking around, but it did nothing for Jane's lines. Which were magnificent.

_The woman's legs were sculpted marble._

Anna flicked the turn signal and pulled into a lot at a strip mall space, fancy boutiques with stupid French names scrawled across pastel awnings in cutesy cursive scripts. She avoided the one in Comic Sans out of pure spite.

"You like skirts?" Anna asked.

"Yes."

"I've never seen you wear one."

"I don't have any."

"But you like them?"

"Yes."

"But you don't have any?"

"Do you always merry-go-round your conversations?"

"You're the best thief in the world!" Anna exclaimed. She unbuckled her safety belt and hiked her right leg up into the driver's seat, fingers laced over a knee, full-facing Jane.

"Thank you. But what does that have to do with skirts?"

"Don't you steal stuff you… like?" Anna asked.

"No."

"But what about the diamond fetish?"

"IT'S NOT A FETISH!"

"Woah there, Ice Queen, I'm just trying to get into that crystallized brain of yours. So it's not a fetish, fine. But you've got plenty of money. I know you do. What do you spend it on?"

"That's none of your…" Jane stopped, pulling her arms over her chest, holding her elbows so tight she might've popped her forearms off. She exhaled through her teeth like a perturbed snake. "I spend a lot of my money on electronics. Supplies. My most recent purchase was a highly rated soldering gun. I pay for information, not a lifestyle."

"That's… different," Anna answered. "Thank you for your honesty. And you can keep the skirt."

Jane's head was still facing forward, but Anna saw her eyes shift to the left. Not much, but enough.

"Thank you," she said.

"You're welcome."

Jane nodded. "Can we go now?"

"Sure, just lose the gloves."

Jane looked down at the extremities tucked into the crooks of her elbows, then flexed her fingers experimentally. She brought her hands up, staring hard at the black fabric. Anna heard static build as she brushed her fingertips together.

"Do I have to?" Jane asked.

"Seriously? Another fetish?"

"It's NOT—"

"I know, I know, just picking at you. But it's not exactly inconspicuous. Which is what we're going for."

Anna rummaged around in the back seat and pulled out two purses, plunging into their depths. It was an excavation in Prada, and from the trenches she withdrew two wallets, flushed with cash, credit cards and two convincing driver's licenses, complete with New York state holograms and professional lamination.

"These are good," Jane said.

"Thank you. I can't quite give my covers an electronic history, but document forgeries… it's kind of a hobby, like scrapbooking for normal people."

"I checked your rap sheet. You do restorative work on the paintings you steal, and wait—" Jane brought the wallet inches from her chin. "How did you get my picture?!"

"Hans got it to me. I've got papers for everyone on the team."

Jane just stared at the license, her cloth-covered fingers bending the plastic in simmering rage.

"Hey, just don't break it… You didn't know he had your photo?" Anna asked cautiously.

"No."

"But, he contacted you. Recruited all of us. You had to know he had some of your information."

"I didn't know he had this. It makes me wonder what else he knows about me."

"Nothing damaging, or he would have probably used it by now," Anna said.

Anna watched as Jane dissected the photo, eyes flashing in the quiet. She sat in the passenger's seat for a solid two minutes, gloved fingers twitching against the plastic. Anna swore she heard a mumbled 'Hans'.

_Gonna have to talk to her about these long silences._

"You remember that talk about trust?" Jane asked, ending her pensive study.

_How could I forget? I broke down on a porch swing with one of the most wanted women in the world consoling me. Helping me walk. Offering me a breath mint. _

Anna nodded.

"I would put my life in the hands of those Norwegian assassins before I trusted Hans Westerguard."

"Then I would call you an excellent judge of character," Anna said dispassionately. "Hans and I… there is history there. Not, like, not _that_ kind of history, or anything, I just— you're right not to trust him."

Anna stuck her hand on the door handle, beat passing as a trio of preteens trotted past with ice cream cones.

"So you won't give up the gloves, then?" she tried again.

"I have a… condition."

"Really?" Anna said skeptically. Her brow inched skyward and the corner of her lip tilted in response. "I guess we'll have to make it work, then."

She ambled out of the car and Jane followed suit, falling into step with her along the primly manicured tropical sidewalk. Funky orchids in pots and brash begonias in planters assaulted her vision, exclaiming 'THIS IS THE TROPICS!' in vividness and hue.

"You sure your name's not Billy Jane?" Anna asked lightly.

"No."

"And you're not my lover?"

Jane stopped in her tracks, head cocked back in her default position. With that neck angled, amid the leafy foliage, she looked like a skinny albino parrot.

"What are you saying?"

"Don't go 'round, breakin' young girls' hearts!" Anna sung in her face.

Jane looked absolutely terrified. Hands over her abdomen, she drew in on herself and began fiddling with the waistband of her new skirt. Her dark pupils were shifting, emotional tectonics, like she was calculating her next move. Anna thought she might just fly away on a rope she'd stashed somewhere, then show back up in her warehouse apartment in New York unannounced when Anna was even _less _clothed than she had been this morning.

Why that thought didn't paralyze her, Anna didn't know. It only seemed indecent and peculiar and wildly entertaining.

_But I really shouldn't mess with her so much. She's like an adorable little lamb that masquerades as an adrenaline junkie. _

"I'm going to turn down the pop culture references around you, I swear," Anna said lightly, burrowing her arm under Jane's steel grip. She tugged her along casually, pausing every so often to admire a storefront and smile at a clerk.

"_Billy Jean_ is a song by Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson is a famous pop singer. Arguably _the _most famous pop singer of a certain era, coming from a famous family. He wore a white glove when he performed _Billy Jean_ on a telecast and it blew up. Everybody liked gloves after that."

Anna stopped in front of one window, taking stock of the selections in the shop.

_This might work._

"Your name is Jane. Hence, 'Billy Jane'. Almost like Billy Jean? The lyrics go, 'Billy Jean is not my lover. She's just a girl that claims, I am the one'. And there's your pop culture lesson for the day. Any questions?"

"Wouldn't his other hand be cold if he only wore one glove?"

"That's your question? You're wearing gloves in the tropics and _that's _your question?"

"Is this entirely necessary for the explanation?" Jane shifted the arm Anna was holding in her grip, flexing—

_Dear Lord in heaven was that her bicep?!_

"Uhm… yes. I gave us the same last name on the I.D.s. Like sisters, or cousins, or something, who walk arm in arm. Just in case someone came around asking questions you couldn't answer, I'd be able to step in and let my mouth do the rest."

"That's… an odd phrase," Jane said.

"It teetering on the edge of inappropriate. I like it."

"Then I suppose it suits you," Jane said, relaxing minutely into the grip. "I applaud you for your, uhm, foresight in the matter. No matter how crass you turn it."

"Well, some pale little angel in black dropped down from the sky and told me I should be more careful. You know, have some foresight for my jobs," Anna said, tugging her into the store. "I took the words to heart."

Anna led Jane toward the back of the store where the more sedate daywear was hanging. Curling around displays and mannequins, Anna began shoving hangers down the racks with practiced aplomb.

"Boring, boring, ugly, wrong color, boring, too low, boring, not low enough, boring, boring, here we go."

Anna plucked a white blouse from the rack and shoved it at Jane.

"Aren't you going to help me?" she asked.

"I don't know what I'm doing," Jane whispered. "I didn't know there was anything wrong with the clothes I had."

Anna lowered her voice and held the blouse in front of Jane, stepping closer so no sneaky clerks could overhear.

"We just need you to blend in with Caribbean tourists for three days. Do you have beach wear for three days?"

"Apparently not. But I won't be out and about for the majority of the time. This is pointless."

Anna ignored her. "And we need something that will get you onto the floor reserved for the corporate meeting with the rest of the Seven Seas board. I'll be doing the face work, you just need something that'll let you waltz through the lobby unnoticed. I've got a pencil skirt with your name on it and this blouse will pair fine with it. You'll wear it the same way you're wearing this, okay?"

"Okay."

"With heels. Black heels. If you are ever in doubt, black heels are the answer."

"Okay."

"This is the most agreeable I've ever seen you."

"Because I am completely out of my element. You could put me in a circus outfit and I would be none the wiser."

"Don't tempt me—"

Jane shot her down with a sneer.

"I am kidding and you need to chill out. Now buck up! I'll buy you a snow cone if you're a good girl for the rest of the afternoon."

Jane brightened instantly.

"Really? I love— I mean, fine."

Anna's eyes went back to the rack, outwardly paying no heed to the comment. Jane didn't hide it quick enough, though; the unmanufactured joy. She tucked it away in her personal memory bank to exploit at a later date.

"Just go pick out some things that you like. I'll get a variety and we'll meet back here in ten minutes."

"Only ten minutes?"

"Do you think you'll need more time than that?"

"I don't… I just, no. It's fine."

And ten minutes later, Anna was sorry for not giving Jane more direction, more time, more… something. She had cobbled together a few nice pieces, skirts and tops and a pair of sports shorts, two peasant blouses, one floppy hat, Capri pants, and even a conservative two-piece for the other girl.

Jane held one item: a menacing amalgamation of fabric and death, a bulbous, bruise-colored moo moo so wrong for her figure it made Dennis Rodman look right. It was unsuitable for any figure under the age of sixty-five. Or... really anyone breathing, for that matter. Anna would not wish it on her worst enemy's sadistic grandmother.

"What _is_ that?"

"It's a dress… isn't it?"

"That's generous," Anna muttered.

_Okay, baby steps. She's not going to recognize haute couture on her first time out. Though picking up a moo moo… if she ever gets good at accessorizing I will ridicule her mercilessly in the future_.

Anna didn't know which was odder: that she was thinking about interacting with Jane in the future or that it made her so cheery.

"Why did you pick that out?" Anna asked.

"It's wrong, I'll put it back—"

"No. Stop, learning experience. You like learning, and, analyzing things, right?" Anna tried. "This is one of those times."

"A—"

"Come on, you've got to try. Consider it a returned favor."

"I haven't done anything for you."

"You didn't crush me when I poured my heart out to you last night."

Jane stared at the lumpy fabric in her hands, shifting uncomfortably from toe to toe.

"People make bad choices when they're... mad, or scared even... or stressed. All of which you seemed last night," Jane said.

"I'm usually not such a sloppy, weepy drunk," Anna said, trying to lighten a mood that had turned oppressive. "So, why this?"

"I wanted a dress."

"Okay, well, that's a start. Any other reason?"

Jane's shoulders rocketed up and then sagged, like a deflated balloon animal.

"What's your favorite color?"

"Black," Jane said automatically.

"No. I didn't ask what the most useful color is, or the best color for camouflage, or the color you already own about a bazillion pieces in. What's your favorite color?"

Jane looked at the fabric, then shut her eyes, those pupils going to work again under her lids.

_I'm going to have to ask her about that later. Or reprimand her. She looks like a robot-rocket preparing thrusters for launch._

"Diamond."

"Diamond isn't a color you can look for in a boutique. And if you recall—" Anna slid closer to her and dumped all of the pieces in her arms, grabbing an elbow and steering her toward the back where the dressing rooms were located. "We're supposed to be undercover. So maybe keep all the ice talk on the D-L."

"You promised me no more pop culture references," Jane sighed.

"No more slang then, either," Anna conceded. It had been a trying morning, speaking so candidly with Jane. Trying, but insightful all the same. "Elaborate on 'diamond' as your favorite color," Anna commanded.

"It's not just any diamond. I suppose it's, more of a reflection of a hue, a prismic clarity… Not clear as in transparent, but clear as in unblemished, a shade of deep sapphire, like the Hope Diamond as seen through the Sancy, the former being a lustrous blue, the latter a pale yellow, refracted in the brilliant cut and bathing the wall in this consummate, faultless luminescence," Jane finished breathily, her face as relaxed as Anna had ever seen it.

"FEH-TISH," Anna smirked.

Jane erupted into a girlish giggle and Anna had the gall to _join_ her, a hand levitating toward her mouth as the two laughed, really laughed, and Anna was so obtusely delighted that Jane had consented to the midday affair. It felt like she was shopping with her college roommate. Hanging out with a girlfriend. Trading laughs with a sister.

It almost felt real.

"Yes, I suppose I must relinquish my hold on that one," Jane said, bending down to retrieve some garments gone rogue. A top or two had fallen to the ground as the blonde shook with laughter, so Anna bent with her to retrieve them.

"I'll see what I can find with that very— romantic color description. If we ever run across another jewel while we're together, I'll be sure and give you a minute alone with it first."

_Wait, what?_

"Not that we'll be together after this job," Anna said, grasping at the garment nearest her and placing it on top of the pile in Jane's arm. It was the cup to the black bikini Anna had selected for Jane's possible purchase.

_Oh, hell no. No. Abort, abort, abort_—

"We'll be retired and in opposite hemispheres, in all likelihood," Jane said.

"Yeah, exactly. I don't even know why I said that. Ha. You know that, pssshh, I just talk for a living, and you'd think I'd get clarity, or like, sense in my words or something, but no, then I revert to my crazy rambling—"

"A. Take a breath. After this payout, I'll be able to hire you as my stylist," Jane said, previous wide smile turning shy.

_Ohmygod is she blushing and why is that making me feel like I ate a questionable order of Tacos Supremos from Casa de Carne in Brooklyn?_

"Yeah," Anna tried to play it off. "Judging from that last selection you'd need me whatever season, in as many climates."

"I can't be quite so hopeless."

"You overestimate yourself."

"A sin you're _never_ guilty of, I'm sure?"

"Oh, so we've picked up on the sarcasm? Come on, Jane. Get in there and get your clothes off, or Hans is going to have our heads."

Jane let herself be pushed through the archway toward the back hall and into one of the open dressing stalls.

"Oh shit, I didn't mean… well, just see what you like out of that," Anna waved with her hand, walking backward blindly. "I'm just gonna go— ow."

_When did the doorjamb decide to move right in front of my face?_

"—go get you some more options. Right. Yes. Happy… changing."

_Holy shit what is happening? This can't still be the hangover! I've had plenty worse nights than that… it's like I'm on my first job or something. Get it together, Anna. _

Anna hightailed it out to the front of the store, skipping over the clearance section and marching straight to the wall full of shoes.

"Hello, darlings," she said, caressing a round-toe wedge like a lover. Her eyes glazed over and she set to work, hand-selecting rhinestone-bespeckled pairs in varying sizes for Jane (and _maybe_ two pair for herself, why waste the opportunity?). She also found a pair of sophisticated black pumps that would serve the blonde well in many future endeavors.

_You're welcome._

Her eyes found a separate section of the store, and a salesgirl smiled at her as she bypassed the accessories stall. Anna located an entire rack of dresses they'd missed on the first go-round, and started shuffling through hangers speedily.

"Can I help you find anything?" the salesgirl asked.

"No, I think I'm alright."

"What about for your sister?"

"Oh she's not my—" _Dammit. Get your guard up, girl. Just because you're having fun doesn't mean this shit can't get you killed. Game face, you're ready for this._

"—not my sister."

"Girlfriend, then?" the salesgirl was grinning bashfully.

"Ha! If she was my girlfriend, I'd make her dress better."

"Well, here, take my card," the salesgirl said. "In case you ever need any personal styling touches while you're on the island. Though you seem to be doing very well for yourself."

She gave Anna an appraising look, shyly turned her head, and started to walk off.

"Cousin!" Anna didn't know why she needed to reassert her connection with Jane. The situation was not threatening, but the link was all at once paramount. "She's my cousin."

"So you're available?" the salesgirl brightened.

"No… I mean yes, but not in that way. We're— my cousin and I… I'm working, we're together— wait, no, damn, not like _together_, we're working. Here. Together. So I couldn't be— and I'm off the market, but she's gorgeous— wait, what? No, I mean, she's—" Anna took a breath.

_This doesn't happen. Maybe when I'm off a job, when I don't care. This is Anna, not A, not the grifter, not the coolest motherfucking art thief this side of the Louvre. _

_Get your shit together. Tell a story. Have an adventure_.

"Sorry, we're just really nervous about meeting with our client," Anna said to the salesgirl, who had taken on a rather bewildered, defensive stance during the verbal vomit. She was attempting to inch away from Anna discreetly.

"We've been sweating right through our clothes! Obviously, the Caribbean and all," Anna waved nonchalantly at the air.

"May I suggest the Dominican cotton? Hand-sewn from seamstresses on our sister island, lightest material you'll find."

"Thank you, do you have anything in—" _Diamond?_ "—aqua? Or like, a turquoise? Something in the cerulean family."

"I'll see what I can find."

Minutes later, the girl returned with several selections, none of which matched the color Jane had mentioned. But there were multiple dresses, one in particular catching Anna's eye. A short, twofer spaghetti strap number with a white lace bodice and sweetheart neckline, hitting just below the natural waist and then flaring into a breezy field of sky blue with white polka dots. The pair of wedges Anna had petted rather inappropriately sprang to the forefront of her mind and Anna pounced, all but barreling over the stunned salesgirl in the process of returning to the dressing room.

"Jane!" Anna called, hopping in place like a pogo-stick. "How you coming in there?"

"The straps and zips to these contraptions are more convoluted than the catacombs under Paris." Her voice lowered distinctly through the slotted door and she growled to herself. "This coming from the woman who knows fifty different sailing knots."

Fabric rustled and Jane opened the door, immaculate in a pair of sleek white capris and an emerald green halter. She turned to the side and Anna saw shoulder blades that would give Jane's impeccable kneecaps a run for their money.

_Wait, is that a scar?_

"Very beachy," Anna cooed. "You like?"

"I don't dislike it," Jane said.

"With you, I'll take that as a positive."

"I like the red skirt, and the blue one."

"I'm not sure about the shade for your coloring, but I really think you have an inclination toward super girly clothes. That's not a bad thing!" Anna reassured, as she saw Jane's arms return to cross her chest. "Don't be so self-conscious about the stuff you want. Who cares what I think? If you like it, great!"

"I care what you think."

"Oh," Anna said. The carpet pattern was suddenly the most interesting item in the room, Anna's gaze running over leafy palm designs and then pausing over a pair of cocaine-white feet.

"You know, because you get to play dress up for a living," Jane said.

"That's a little demeaning."

"I… didn't mean it as an insult."

"Here," Anna said, unsure of why she was unsettled. "I'm positive it's your size. With these," Anna handed the wedges over. "I'm not as sure about those."

"I'll try them."

Anna nodded then pointed toward the front of the store.

"Wait! I'll— uhm, that is, you'll need to give me the final say-so," Jane said.

"I told you, trust your instincts."

"I do, but, it never hurts to have a second pair of eyes. Just stay—" Jane stared at the dress in her hands. "Give me a minute."

Anna leaned against the opposite wall, warring internally with a heap of unorthodox feelings she feared she'd not be able to reconcile over the duration of this job.

_Who am I kidding, I'm attracted to her! But I've been attracted to people before, marks even. Fat lot of good that did me. It'll pass... it always does._

"A?"

Anna looked up from the wall to see a fourth of Jane's body peeking out behind the door.

"Well, let's see then."

Jane stepped out cautiously, wobbly in the wedges.

"I usually have better balance," she said to the floor.

One of the thin white straps fell from Jane's shoulder, the upper half of her sternum, clavicle, throat, shoulders, deltoids… everything bare and bright, the smallest amount of cleavage accentuated by a snug bodice.

Anna reached over and put the strap back in place. Jane flinched at the touch and took a step back, head bowing even further down. Anna did not comment on the bruise near her armpit, nor the tiny scar at the tip of her sternum.

"You're beautiful." It wasn't gushing, or bubbling, or light. It was the most grounded, honest phrase Anna had spoken all day.

Jane's arms went to cover her center.

"Okay, enough of that," Anna said, reaching out before she could stop herself. Her hands were on the soft interiors of Jane's elbows, and whatever foreign, curious feelings she had been experiencing during their outing were tossed by the wayside in favor of comforting the woman before her. Comforting, coaching, teaching. It was all that mattered. Because Jane was beautiful, and she needed to see that.

Anna needed Jane to see that more than anything.

"First rule of the grift," Anna said, prying Jane's arms apart. They fell to the blonde's sides but Anna didn't release them.

"You are the draw. You are temptation. You have to make people want to listen to you. No one wants to listen to someone who hunches over and keeps her head down." Anna put a hand at the base of Jane's spine and pushed forward, tilting her chin up with the opposite simultaneously. She continued, voice lower. "The dress doesn't matter. It is supplement, it is aid, but it is _not_ the force. A lot of first timers make that mistake. They think the clothes and the references will do the job for them. Wrong. Do your homework. Know your mark. And reel them in with the confidence of preparedness. Because you own them. You control them. You… _hack_ them, to put it in your terms. And the story follows from your reconnaissance. The plan flows from your preparedness. Do you understand?"

Jane didn't look back down at Anna. She stood still as stone—_no, marble_—but nodded her head once.

"That's a long rule."

"You know what con is short for, right? To con someone?" Anna asked, voice almost a whisper. "It's a _con_fidence trick. You don't take their money. You don't take their paintings, or their jewels, or their stocks, or their helicopters—"

"Helicopters?"

"Another time," Anna continued. "You take their trust. Because once you have that, you have them. You ingratiate yourself and take their confidence. The alternate meaning, though, the self-assurance, the poise, that's what you have to show in order to take their trust in the first place. If you have no confidence in yourself, how can they have confidence in you?" Anna asked, squeezing Jane's arms. "Now," Anna said, stepping back, admiring the woman before her. "Shoulders back," she instructed.

It wasn't that Jane had changed from the beanie-wearing, tech-talking pariah she had first met on a side-road three months ago. But she had bloomed, for want of a better term, with some new heels and a posture lesson. The dress fit her better than those damned black gloves, lace bodice boosting her breasts and flaring skirt highlighting her waist, a decidedly feminine figure with flawless kneecaps and porcelain toes.

"So, if you want to gain someone's confidence, you don't just have to own them. You have to own yourself," Anna said. She was still standing in front of Jane, arms slack, hovering, like a mosquito about to light. Never touching, for fear of a swat, but ready. So ready.

"Know your best parts. Use them. Exploit them. Someone tells you you're beautiful: damn straight! You _know_ you're beautiful. Don't hide behind your arms and turn your head down. You turn and look them square in the face and say 'thank you', because that's exactly what you want them to see. Now…"

Anna took another step back and did a one-eighty, strolling down the changing-room hallway with her hands behind her back. She let her face go blank, then surprised as her eyes met Jane's once again.

"Why Jane! Look at you in that slick new dress. You're beautiful, it really suits you."

Jane looked down at A, head cocked and face wary.

_At least she'd gotten the arms down. Pick your battles, Anna._

"Chin up!" Anna stage whispered.

Jane adjusted. "Thank you, A."

"You're very welcome."

"No, truly. The dress, the advisement. I…I really am grateful."

"No need to thank the Academy, it's for the job," Anna said.

_Damn girl, defensive much?_

"Right, of course," Jane said,

"Give us a twirl," Anna said, making a swirling motion with her finger.

Jane performed a tentative 360 in the wedges, skirt flaring, thighs exposed, looking just as good going as she did coming.

_Fuck, stop. Stop. STOP that now, Anna. What the hell has gotten into you?_

The more wiley side of her inner voice responded:

_That would be a pair of divine kneecaps, shoulder blades that could slice a pineapple, and an out-of-this-world ass._

"So, good enough for the job, then?" Jane asked, shuffling back toward the dressing room during Anna's silent study.

Anna caught her gloved hand before she could retreat fully. Even with the ridiculous black gloves she still looked beautiful. Anna found that equal parts exhilarating and worrisome.

"It might be for the job, but I'd be lying if I said this wasn't fun."

Jane smiled.

"A…"

"Yes?"

"Would you… uhm…"

"Yes?" Anna breathed.

Jane leaned against the doorjamb of the dressing room, as if she were about to ask Anna for a kidney, or her firstborn. She looked hesitantly at her gloves, rubbing her fingers in her characteristic manner. Static crackled.

"Do you know anything about computers?" she asked hurriedly.

"What? Computers? Well, sort of, I mean, not like you. Not codes, and hacking, and how to trace stuff and— well, no. No, not really."

Jane's focus left her fingers and pinned Anna in place.

"Would you like to see some of my stuff for the job?"

"Surprisingly… yes."

* * *

_A/N: Gracious, that was long. Probably bordering on too long for a shopping trip scene, but they're just so cute together. The mundane interactions, the bonding, we missed all of that in the movie! Just them talking to each other. And as we can see, talking leads to interaction, interaction to observation, observation to frustration (at least for Anna, at the moment *wink*).  
_

_Also... nearly 100 follows? That's surreal for me, guys. *showers you in gratitude* *you might need a towel or umbrella*_

_Let me know if I've succeeded in bringing a smile to your face with this installment by typing words into that box down there. Here's a few: rutabaga. cowboy. armistice. colloquialism. See, I even got you started :D_


	12. Doubts and Snowcones

_I don't own Frozen._

* * *

"Your entire mouth is covered in glucose residue," Jane said.

"Speak for yourself, Blue Man Group. You look like a lizard in a blizzard."

Jane flipped down the visor in the passenger's seat of the rental. The windows were down and A had the radio blaring some tropical ditty that featured a prominent steel drum section, a Mr. Robert Marley if she recalled A's song identification. The girl kept singing along, even with hair strings blowing into her mouth. Jane had experienced that before, threadlike strings of dead protein smearing drool on her face as she climbed the Tower of London.

But A sung around it, or in spite of it, carefree. Seemingly liberated.

As promised, the copper-headed girl had stopped for snow cones, and now the pair's faces were stained with blue and red dyes numbers twelve and fourteen. Jane had even removed her left glove to avoid damaging the inner digital workings of the fabric; the melting juice had dribbled down Jane's forearm, colored, sugary tears racing toward an elbow.

They had been walking down a shaded sidewalk, but when A noticed the dripping action, she had nudged Jane's arm skyward and begun cheering for 'Little Bluey', because, 'come on Jane, he's smaller than the other drop!', yelling like a madwoman when the drops crossed the inner crease of her elbow. There was much pomp and circumstance over Little Bluey's achievement, mainly coming from A. There was also much goosebump prickling and gut sinking, mainly coming from Jane. The blonde thought it directly correlated with the moment A had taken a paper napkin and wiped the race track of periwinkle liquid sugar up from her inner elbow to her palm, and had then tucked the flimsy paper shield between Jane's fore and middle fingers. Once clean, Jane had let lose a laugh at the ridiculousness of the affair, earning her a smile from A in response. The rest of the walk was spent between soggy paper napkins, sticky snow cone syrup, and conversations that had nothing to do with illegal activity.

She had not let loose one rogue spark, sans left glove.

Jane's eyes left her memory and returned to the visor mirror in the car. Her tongue prodded at the back of her own lips, its tip sneaking forward like a groundhog tentatively surfacing in February. Upon seeing its tinted head, Jane unfurled the rest of her tongue down her faded blue chin, studying the stains and dyed dots that were her taste buds.

"Your tongue is longer than Gene Simmons's."

"Thank you?" Jane said, retracting the pink-turned-blue flesh.

"Thank KISS."

"Who?"

"No, not The Who. KISS."

"Kiss?"

"Yes."

"Um, okay." And so she did as A instructed, and leaned over the console. It was difficult, mainly because her seatbelt was still strapping her down, but also because she had no clue as to why the length of her tongue necessitated a kiss. Unless it was an involved kiss, but she did not feel comfortable performing that act just yet. And Jane _did _see a lot of people kiss during her jobs: a brush of puckered flesh to cheeks in greeting, lips pressed against a temple in comfort. She didn't interact, but she did observe, so it wasn't a completely foreign concept.

And she had kissed before. Kissed, been kissed, given, received. But she didn't like to think about that now. Or ever. It was not pertinent, and it still smarted despite her repression.

Besides, A had said that she would 'coach' Jane on more casual interactions, starting with the clothes, basic touches, the ability to communicate without sounding 'like a robot or some chick from the 1800s with too much sass'.

_So maybe a kiss was just the next lesson on that list?_

Jane pressed her lips to A's cheek, just in front of the zygomatic process. Warm and supple, smooth and a little salty from evaporated perspiration. Even tangy, A's natural moisture mixing with her strawberry snow cone drippings. But the girl started, yanking the wheel and veering into a lane with oncoming traffic.

"Shit!" A said, and jerked the car back this side of the yellow line. Her face was redder than her hair, Jane noticed.

"What was that?!" A near-screamed.

"Was that not correct?" Jane asked. She had felt rather satisfied with mastering such an intimate social task so soon in their budding friendship. "I can try again, but maybe we should wait until you've stopped the vehicle."

"I—you—what?!" A sputtered, eyes bobbing from Jane to the roadway like pinballs on speed.

"Kiss? You said kiss. Is that not what you intended?"

A gurgled, chin bobbing fishlike.

"You know, on second thought, perhaps I acted too quickly," Jane said. "Kissing with our mouths so sticky seems highly unsanitary. There's dry juice all over the both of us. Look, it's all over your chin! And it would most surely be transferred in the act. I'm no misophobe, but with my saliva all over you, and your sweat on my face? Did you know that the lips are one hundred times more sensitive than average touch receptors—"

"Ohmygod stop talking. It's hotter than hell in here, is the air on?" A asked, mashing the snowflake button on the console and waving a hand to her face.

"I still don't understand what I did wrong," Jane said.

"KISS is a band!" A said.

"No need to shout. I merely thought kissing and tongues went together, though what connection they have to bands, I'm afraid I'm unaware."

"You've got to stop talking about your tongue. And," A coughed, rubbing ferociously at her chin all of a sudden. "A-a-and kissing. And juice… on chins. Please. Cease and desist."

"You brought it up," Jane said, now a little miffed.

_She tells me to kiss her and I'm the one who did something wrong?_

"Not like… I didn't… seriously, I'm not talking about tv, or movies, or bands, or anything around you anymore. It's too dangerous."

"Alright, I apologize."

"No, I—" A licked her lips, then brought the back of her hand to wipe away more red juice from a trail on her cheek. There was a bit of blue there, just above a dimple, from Jane's kiss. Jane didn't know why, but she liked it there. The colors suited each other.

"You don't need to apologize. You didn't do anything wrong. You just surprised me."

"You'd think you'd know how to handle surprises by now," Jane said.

"Oh, my aliases can handle surprises," A said, turning into the resort drive. "I just get into this mode when I'm on a job. I'm unshakeable. But when it's just me, no aliases, no marks, I'm like… I don't even know the word," A trailed off, eyes on the road. "Consider it a compliment that you disorient me so. It's not typical."

"It takes a social inept to addle a social adept. Interesting."

"You're not inept."

"Please review the last two minute interaction and think your statement over. It may give you pause."

"Well, alright, not everyone knows who KISS is. It's a generational thing. And a taste thing. And a reality television show thing, if you really want to get into it."

"This is me, not getting into it," Jane said, unbuckling her seat belt. She got out of the car and started walking across the resort parking lot. It wasn't until she heard A yelling after her that she realized she'd exited the vehicle before the other girl had pulled into a spot.

She usually leaped from subway cars in tighter spaces, bricks inches from her cheeks. She hopped onto the backs of buses. And trucks, and trains, and ferries, and cabs. She hadn't considered this abnormal behavior.

_I'm going to have to get better at this_.

"Right, yes, sorry," Jane said, rushing back to the now-parked car.

A jack-in-the-boxed from the side door, trotting around to Jane's side.

"Do you always leap out of speeding vehicles?!"

"You were in a parking lot driving less than ten miles an hour."

"But still! What if you had gotten hurt?" A asked.

"Of all the things you know about me, you worry when I get out of a barely moving car?"

"I just think you should be more careful."

Jane quirked her head to the side. She wasn't even cognizant of the action anymore. When Jane thought about things, social interactions, emotions, she cocked her head. When it was her numbers, her analyses, she closed her eyes and let the information fall behind her lids. Drowning in math, drenched in code, and draped with electricity. She'd never be a conwoman, or a poker player for that matter. Her tells were too obvious, too blatant. And she noticed, the more she'd been in contact with A, the more she'd spoken with the girl, the more her head quirked to the side. The less she saw of numbers, the more she started in with those insufferable _feelings_.

Feelings that were completely agreeable, positive, and welcome.

Her sparks had subsided.

_That's new._

"Encouraging care-taking implies that you… fear for someone's well being, right?" Jane asked.

"Of course!"

"So, you fear for my well being?"

"You make it sound so uncertain. Yeah, I care for your well being, if it means you're not jumping out of moving cars!"

"That's… nice."

"Huh?"

"I don't think anyone's ever cared about me before."

"Oh."

"Hm."

Jane turned around and began walking toward the palm tree line, jungle heat bearing down on her skin. Heavy, moist, thick. Though that could have been the air from her and A's conversation. She didn't linger over it, but the atmosphere was congested enough for their words to simply sit there between them, mocking, reminding, confronting.

She pressed a thumb to the exposed skin on her upper arm. Jane released the pressure and observed as white brightened to fierce pink. The blonde could not feel the sunburn, not yet, but her limbs would be tight later. Her range of mobility would not be limited, but it would be painful and stingy all the same.

_Perhaps today was a bad idea_.

"I have some aloe lotion, if you need it," A said.

Jane didn't know when A had fallen into step beside her. They had reached the tree line on their right, lackadaisical sand knolls tumbling down to the water's edge on their left. Three children were digging a moat for an elaborate sandcastle that high tide would destroy. Jane pondered the futility of construction, and wondered why people put as much effort into buildings. They were such fragile, breakable things, in the face of something as powerful and unpredictable as nature. Or in the face of something as fickle as humankind. Constructions, though charming, were impotent in their fallibility.

Like relationships.

Unlike diamond. Diamond was stone, forged by time and pressure. Solitary. There was a reason it was the most coveted jewel. Because it was the best: flawless, sharp, unimpaired. It was above every other gem.

_But it was quite lonely at the top. _

"Wanna go for a dip?" A asked, inclining her head to the water.

If it were possible, Jane went stiffer. Yellow sparked from her fingertip, but A's concentration was on the water.

_Thank God._

"No," she said. "No, thank you."

_Better. That was polite._

"You can't swim?"

"I don't swim. Doesn't mean I can't."

"Why?"

"It's dangerous."

"No it's not. Just float around in the shallows. It'll make your skin feel better. And they haven't released a _Jaws_ sequel in years, though _Sharknado-_"

"I didn't say it was dangerous for me," Jane spat. She could feel her hands tingling despite the gloves, electricity so eager for expulsion she rolled her neck and crossed her arms to get a better handle on the prickling.

"I'm sorry, that was uncalled for," Jane continued. "It has to do with my… condition." She brought her hands up and wiggled her fingers in A's face, gloves keeping a lid on any capricious discharges. "I would very much enjoy swimming. It would cap a…"

_What would it cap? The most fun you've had in a decade? The most splendid afternoon? The first time in forever you've simply… lived?_

"It would've been the cherry on top of a surprisingly cordial interaction. I must confess, I did not expect that from you," Jane finished.

Wind blew off the ocean and hit Jane in the face, loose sand stinging the ridges of her cheekbones. She lifted a hand to her nose, poking the inflamed skin. She wondered if this were part of some master plan, Hans and A trying to incapacitate her, using nature as weapon. To make her movements less fluid, due to some nasty sunburn. That would explain the shopping trip, getting her out of her regular clothes. A's breakdown on the swing, a gambit for her trust, a gimmick for manipulation. A had confessed as much. But the confession seemed heartfelt, something more self-spiting than duplicitous. Was that not another tactic, another means of disabling Jane, melting the 'Ice Queen'? So thoroughly disorienting her that she had leaned in and _kissed_ her, having only spoken to her on a handful of previous occasions?

Her fingers sizzled and the air pumped with electricity.

A touched a hand to a palm trunk and got shocked.

"Damn static, did it again," A said, shaking out her hand. Like she was trying to rid herself of some icky substance coating her fingers. After the reaction in the car, Jane wondered if that's what A would have done if she had kissed her knuckle instead. Jane likewise wondered why the thought of kissing A's knuckle was not displeasing.

"Fuck, right down to the toes!" A wriggled about. "That's like, the fifth time today, I swear."

"Seventh." Jane had been keeping track, and she hated that she had been responsible for each and every jolt. They were not comfortable, Jane had been told. Though she didn't know herself. A bizarre immunity from her own condition.

"Don't I get a computer lesson?" A reengaged.

"Why are you doing this?" Jane finally asked. It hadn't been a problem until just now, until everything shifted into something near tangible, almost definite. But it wasn't quite there yet… like, a mirage of a solid. A reflection of a friendship, once-removed and more possible than probable. Jane hated the almost more than anything, because it was so incomplete. She'd rather none than some, especially if she couldn't have all of it. There was security in completeness, whether it be completely full or completely empty.

"Doing what?"

"Being… nice," Jane said.

"I… don't know?" A answered. "It's just, how I am?"

"Is it really? How you are?" Her back was against a scratchy palm tree, glove-clad hands propping up the base of her spine, one foot hitched against the trunk in an apathetic lean. She feigned indifference even in her posture, but her shifting eyes were probably giving her away. Jane knew she cared too much for A's next answer.

"Yes. I mean, it's not like I'm… oh," A said, her own eyes falling to a few stray palm fronds.

It was high afternoon now, the sun unforgiving in its direct angle. Jane thought the sun suited A. They were both big and round, not in a physical way, but round in their mannerisms, bringing everything together, continuity and smoothness and illumination. Jane was more moon than sun; stilted, half-complete some nights, barely a sliver on others, sometimes not even present. You could see the blemishes on the moon, slice space apart with its khopesh-like crescent. There were no blemishes on the sun, not from this far away. There was only brightness; so much it could blind you. Incapacitate you. And that was why Jane feared the sun, in some distant, illogical way.

Perhaps that's why she feared A as well. Because she wanted nothing more than exposure, even if she suffered burns.

"You think I'm running a play on you, don't you?" A asked.

"Yes."

_No beating around any bushes here, Sarah, Janene, Miss Desmond, A—_

"I'm not."

"We're back to trust again."

"I fear it'll be recurring," A said.

"Until something breaks. Today felt very…"

"Fantastic. But a little… removed."

"Fantastic, and far away. Shopping and socializing. That's not what we're here for."

"When was the last time you went shopping and goofed off?" A challenged.

"I know, I know, you shop and goof off all the time," Jane said spitefully.

"You'd be surprised," A whispered. "For what it's worth, I wasn't messing with you. Today was me."

"A."

"Yes."

"A for what? Anonymous? That's about as defining as Jane Doe."

"I know what A stands for. No one else does. I don't know much more than that, but at least I have my name."

"That must be nice," Jane said.

"I'm sorry."

"Why?"

"I'm sorry you don't have a name," A said.

"Don't you dare pity me. How do you know I'm not keeping it to myself like you do?"

"I can just tell," A said. "And, if I'm right, which I usually am, it means we probably have even more in common than we think. And if that's the case… I really am very sorry."

"I don't know what to say to that."

"You told me to be careful. In New York, at the SUNY showcase."

"Yes, and…?" Jane asked.

"You said that telling people to be careful means you fear for someone's well being. And, well, like you said…"

Jane's eyes swept her form, a length of tanned leg in stirrupy sandal, well-fit shorts and slip of bare navel, like a smiling orange peel, loose cropped shirt and wild arms all topped off by the most open and honest face Jane had seen in her life.

_Like staring directly at the sun. _

"It's nice feeling worried over," A confessed. "Cared for, even… sort of in abstract. By a stranger."

Jane didn't respond. She didn't feel she could.

"But you're not really a stranger anymore," A said. "We're… kindred spirits. Maybe a little hostile, frenemies of sorts. Until something breaks."

"I only hope it's not our limbs," Jane said.

"Yeah," A agreed, head bobbing in a chuckle. Her body gravitated toward the sunlight, heliotropic flower seeking its sustenance. "I'll be sure to get you that aloe," she said, not looking at Jane. The blonde was glad for the reprieve. "You'll definitely need it."

Jane pushed off from the tree and turned into the forest, this time waiting for A to join her before continuing.

"I need to introduce you to Olaf."

* * *

_A/N: Usual love and thanks to all reviewers and followers! So happy yall are enjoying this story. What did you think of this little foray into Jane Doe's psyche? You can let me know! You have the power! Also, I received a handful of PMs asking about eventual frickfrack and whether it will happen. Let me direct your attention to the modifier 'eventual'. ;)_


	13. Operation Explanation

_I don't own Frozen._

* * *

Once upon a time in Italy, Anna woke to sunbeams streaming through tanned venetian blinds with a naked torso wrapped around her own bare abdomen. She had turned into the embrace with closed eyes, a patch of chest hair tickling the exposed skin over her black cotton bra. She was determined to feel, just for the moment, a security she never had the luxury of truly harboring.

She had been fifteen.

Paulo had been older than she by a handful of years, but he was sculpted, dark, Adonis-like in rigid jaw and demeanor. Rogue black curls had kept his forehead hidden, his heavy, wiry eyebrows, very masculine, very refined. Gentlemanly, despite the alcohol. Attractive, despite or enhanced by the ruggedness. He was the kind of man she could easily charm, easily land, easily swindle; she could settle into a living as a posh wife to an upper class financier or oil baron or vineyard owner. It hadn't taken much effort to flirt, to tease, to slip him a deluding cocktail of whiskey shots and Rohypnol, and then to get invited back to his place.

Which Anna knew was actually his parent's estate. Which Anna knew was one of the few private Italian compounds in Tuscany to display the Gianbattista painting she had been searching for for weeks. Which Anna knew was all-too-easily-acquired by putting out for their attractive, headstrong, fiery Italian first-born.

But she didn't put out. Not really. The drugs kept her from having to take… well, absorb the full plunge. She instead schmoozed and coddled and even grasped the deflated members of heavily intoxicated or drugged males, all for a job, all to get what she wanted. And there had been occasions, though less frequent, that Anna had done the same for the fairer sex. But it had never come to invasion, never a penetration and breaking that rendered her spoiled sexually. Yes, she had performed (hands down boxer-briefs and lips on a pectoral, pushing skirts north while tweaking a nipple), but had never lost enough control of a situation for someone to act upon her; for someone to steal _from her_.

No, her cubbyhole was reserved for her fingers and a select few removable shower heads until… she didn't know until when.

Or until who.

Not that her conquests had left her completely unaffected. Hans had instructed her in the mixing of chemical compounds, his winery affiliations and swindling escapades leaving him all the more sensitive to exact measurements, untraceable drugs dissolved by the stalwart liver and gall bladder and heated blood stream. He told her how much Ambien to use on a male weighing in at two-forty and towering over her petite frame at an astounding six-five. So the men (and women), though addled, would fondle and brush and thrust against her body. She'd feel an erect cock through a trouser leg and couldn't help but twitch, brush bulging breasts through fabric and try not to let her own hardening areolas strain against her lace brassiere.

Anna was obviously not immune to the human body. She studied art for a living, would stare at the renderings of muses, of the objects of the artist's desire. She wondered if one day she would ever love someone enough to turn them into a sort of masterpiece. She craved that emotional elevation as well as the physical. Still, Anna had experienced arousal, though never to the point that she would toss her virginity by the wayside for a quickie with a befuddled mark.

She'd normally get the job done, then take a few personal days. Pet at her lower body. Drink a lot of vodka (the birthday cake kind, sickly sweet). Claw at her bosom. Climax, inspired by a faceless image, and then turn into her pillows and cry. Repeat. Wish she had someone to kiss, who would kiss her back, and mumble her name against her lips. Her _real_ name.

In her early years, when her blood-speckled thighs had caused her to perform Internet search after Internet search, when she first understood the release that came with masturbation, she thought that she had been cursed. Young and naïve with no one to explain anything to her, guilt crushed her nightly in those luscious hotel rooms every time her hand crept between her legs. But she got by. And now, still complete, still whole regardless of her 'career' choices, she knew that she had an ace in the hole. A cheat in the proverbial back pocket. Something she could use, if the time ever came to that.

She knew that she was astoundingly lucky.

Not that Anna planned on selling her virginity.

Not that, in truth, she hadn't considered it.

Not that she hadn't gotten a handle on her sexual desires.

Not that she didn't exploit her own sexuality for cons.

Not that she didn't acknowledge the attractiveness of the human form, male and female.

But what struck her, what moved her concerning her relationships, more than Hans being her teacher, more than Kristoff being a surrogate big brother, more than waking in the arms of a stupefied Paulo and Yvonne and Derek and James and Gillian and Robert—

Was how attracted she was to Jane. Not just her body, though that was certainly a contributing factor. Her carriage, her posture, her gait. Even navigating through a palm forest on the beach side, traveling further inland, the woman walked with a cat-like agility. It was all out of sorts for Anna. Jane was still wearing Anna's own blue skirt and tank top from their shopping adventure (which Anna found much too amusing for befriending a coworker).

The scene was straight out of the old black-and-white Tarzan movies. The pair should have been clad in khaki, hacking at greenery with machetes, one armed with a rifle to prevent the attack of a wandering panther. But no, Jane was leopard and lynx and panther enough: graceful, skittish, dangerous and gorgeous.

And broken, almost irreparably so. Interaction was awkward, unpracticed, rarely filtered. Anna just didn't know how to _respond_. She had studied human behavior, had made a living out of manipulating the vices of average man.

Jane was anything but.

And talking to her only made it worse. Jane was revealing herself, little by little, in a guarded display of what Anna could only figure was the blonde's version of trust. The friendship she had promised with that outstretched hand from last night. The bluntness with which she had relayed her own misgivings about Anna's motivations.

She let Anna dress her, tease her, and shared a meal with her (alright, snowcones, less than a meal, more than a snack). But the fact that they were _sharing_, two girls who had reconciled their own loneliness much too early in life, was telling. Telling in that Anna was deeply attracted to vulnerability. Probably because she was so vulnerable herself. And likewise aroused by a woman who was paradoxically crippled yet more than capable, handicapped but more proficient in her chosen field than Anna could ever hope to be in the con game. A fixer upper that needed restoration, not renovation. It was confusing and titillating and undeniable.

Anna wanted a drink.

"Where are we going?" Anna asked.

"To the golf course."

"Why?"

"So I can show you my computers."

"Which are on the golf course?"

Jane turned and gave her a look that was meant to say, 'where else would they be, dipshit?'.

"Yes."

Jane led Anna over manufactured hills of clipped sod, skipping between sand traps and water features that snaked demurely down to the ocean. Jane strode across a putting green, jogging downhill into a sharp ravine. Anna followed gracelessly, knocking a waiting ball away from the hole and undoubtedly screwing over some poor bastard intent on making par. The edge of the course was not far, nor was the jungle forest lining the links at Caneel Bay. Jane was but thirty yards into the listing palms when Anna ran full-body into her back, for she had halted. Jane didn't acknowledge the collision, and gestured without ceremony to a dilapidated lean-to.

"What is that?"

"Abandoned maintenance shed," Jane said.

"This far back off the links?"

"Hence, abandoned. There used to be nature trails with guided tours, according to a 1997 Caneel Bay brochure. This was used as an outpost of sorts."

"How did you come across a 1997 brochure?"

"If it's ever been online, I have access to it."

"Alrighty then."

Jane beckoned and Anna followed, pausing when a blast of frigid air hit her square in the chest upon stepping into the tin building.

This didn't make any sense. They were in the middle of the humid jungle, and it was coming on four in the afternoon. But it was as pleasant, arguably more-so in the confines of this tiny little shack than in the air-conditioned lobby of the resort proper.

"How is it so nice in here? There can't be like, fans or anything out this far. Is there even electricity for this place?" Anna asked.

She thought she heard Jane mumble something about 'mini-refrigerator' or 'generators'. The door behind them thudded shut, and they were blanketed in darkness.

Anna was panting a bit. She sniffed her underarm discreetly. _And sweaty_. She felt her hair glued to the back of her neck, sticky swirls plastered there and mane inflating in its inevitable poof with so much moisture in the air. She was suddenly very thankful for the darkness.

"A?"

"Yes?"

"We can run over the files on the Carols."

"Sounds good. All play and no work makes A a broke girl."

"Is that how the saying goes?" Jane asked. There might have been mirth in her voice.

"It's how it should go."

"Who could argue with that logic? Give me a moment."

Anna couldn't see much, but she felt Jane leave her side. She heard before she saw, the whirring noise of desktop fans and monitors booting up, speakers crackling as dim grey light lit the interior of the shed. Blue lasers shot through the empty space, and Anna felt like she was suddenly in a concert mosh pit. Beeps and pulses of light kept coming from this seemingly decrepit shack, brightening until she could finally make out the sheer amount of tech Jane had assembled in the small space.

Anna stepped back to take it all in.

"Oof!"

"Wha—"

"Hello Jane!"

"Aaaaaaahhh!"

"Wha—ahhhhhh!"

"Quiet, the pair of you!" Jane hissed.

Anna sputtered. "But I— but you— he's a—my hand's in a tiny man's head!"

The little blue man in lights was doing the same, rambling off a vocal serenade of ones and zeroes and flapping like an inebriated emu.

Jane looked to be playing referee between the two, though they hadn't even addressed each other yet. She held a hand up to Anna, then proceeded to say 'one' and 'zero' in no particular order, so rapidly the words began blurring in Anna's ear. The little blue thing just nodded, dopy smile on his face. He then turned to Anna.

"Hi! I'm Olaf, and I like warm hugs!"

"Ohmygod Jane, what _is_ that? Do you speak fuckin' binary?!"

"You speak French."

"Yeah, and German, and Spanish, and Italian, and some others, but you speak numbers!"

Jane assumed her default position.

"Don't you dare look at me like that's normal!"

Jane shrugged. "This is Olaf. I made him. Olaf, this is A."

"So _you're_ the one Jane made me search—"

"Olaf!" Jane coughed.

Even in the monitor light, Anna could tell Jane was blushing. It thrilled her.

"What are you?" Anna asked him.

"I'm Jane's assistant," Olaf said proudly, standing straighter, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his digital nose.

"How are you even—"

"Projectors," Jane offered. "Here, here, here and here, with several installed above and below for full three-dimensional effect."

"But… Olaf?" Anna asked.

"Yes?" Olaf answered.

"No, why Olaf? Why not, like, Bicentennial Man or Optimus Prime or Weebo or something more like that?"

"Olaf," Jane began. "Operations, Logistics, and Alias Facilitator. O-L-A-F. He does the grunt work so that I don't have to."

"I'm also the voice of reason!" Olaf said.

Jane gave him a reproachful look.

"Sometimes," he quipped.

"Anyway, Olaf, this is A, as I said. We're working together on the Seven Seas Trading job."

"Does that mean we made it to St. John?" Olaf asked.

"Yes."

"Then can I—"

"No. Olaf, you know better. You'll just dissipate into sunrays. Not to mention the placement of the projectors prohibits you leaving the shed."

"Not if you give me an extra surge!"

"The generators couldn't sustain that."

"No Jane, I meant with your pow—"

"Olaf, not now." Jane redirected her conversation to Anna, who had watched the entire exchange in confusion. "He can't go outside. He's a very complex piece of artificial intelligence, bordering on sentient, through programming of my own. But the type of power it would require for him to experience daylight would exceed my systems. That's why he says he likes warm hugs. Because he can never go out, never feel the sun, or the cold, or the rain. People wouldn't understand him... that just because he's not a person doesn't mean he isn't… someone. He'll never really experience anything corporeal."

"That's… tragic," Anna mumbled.

What was even more tragic was the fact that Anna feared Jane wasn't just talking about Olaf.

"Don't tell him that," Jane said. "Olaf? The Seven Seas personnel file, if you would."

"Yes, Jane."

Pictures and notes of everyone on the board of Seven Seas Trading splashed across the wall of monitors on the girls' left. Jane took a seat in a swivel chair and pulled her gloves on tighter. She hit one key on a keyboard, but the rest she did with her hands in mid air. The monitors responded to her movements, and Anna found herself spellbound. Jane was moving and directing information like a conductor did an orchestra, signaling with a flick of a pinkie, a swelling trumpet of embedded code surfacing when she straightened her long, indulgent fingers.

"Alright, here we are. That will be all for now, Olaf.

"Sure, Jane. Nice to meet you, A."

"Uhm… likewise."

A line of blue split the little man's center from the navel up and followed a clock hand's trajectory, erasing the assistant's presence in some big blue swirl of light.

Anna returned her attention to the monitors, the bulging face of one Ursula Carol nearly swallowing the screen. White hair, black blazer, and a sickly pallor that tinged her complexion a dull lavender.

"Ursula Carol, fifty-five, unmarried, childless, CEO of Seven Seas Trading for going on thirty-five years," Jane summarized. "She owns a forty-five percent stake in the company. Has a penchant for exotic marine life and a nicotine addiction."

Jane flicked her wrist and Ursula disappeared, a suited older gentleman with a cloud-white beard and sad eyes replacing her.

"Triton Carol, fifty-two, widower, father to seven daughters, CFO for as long as Ursula's been CEO, with the other forty-five percent."

"Other independent share-holders speculate with the remaining ten?"

"Something like that. There was originally a fiduciary trust set between the two, but it was dissolved long ago," Jane said. "The main point is, neither have a majority. But that's going to change if and when Triton retires, or if and when Ursula leaves the company."

"What does the current agreement state?"

Documents filed across the screen like ants marching back to their hill.

"Ursula has no heir. Her will from twenty-five years ago left all of her shares in the company to Triton, originally. But something happened. A falling out, a business disagreement, I'm not sure. She redrew the document and put her shares up as investment stake. She'll let the corporate jerks have their own go at it."

"The dissolving trust," Anna said.

Jane nodded.

"And what does Triton think of all this?" Anna asked knowingly.

"I'm not sure," Jane said. "I think he would be resentful."

Anna put her index finger on her nose and pointed at Jane. "Ding ding ding!"

"Don't do that."

"Sorry."

"And then there are the daughters," Jane said, as headshots of models flew by on the screen.

No, not models. Triton's daughters.

"You said the falling out happened twenty-five years ago?" Anna asked.

"That's when she cut Triton and his family out of the will."

"How old is the eldest daughter?"

"Twenty-eight. One of three currently married, with children," Jane said.

"Hmm."

"Hmm, what?" Jane asked.

"It's just curious, is all. If I had no heirs to my company position, I might consider grooming one of my multiple nieces for the job."

"Good luck with that," Jane said, the screen suddenly flooded with Facebook, Pinterest, and Instagram profiles. "These girls aren't exactly business-minded. It's all boys, booze and clothes for them."

Anna studied the women. Indeed, even the eldest was a consummate party girl.

"They make the Kardashians look tame and tasteful."

"Who?"

"We're not doing this again," Anna said. She attempted to scroll down the screen with a mouse.

"Not that," Jane said. "Come over here."

She scooched over to one side of the swivel chair, indicating for Anna to take a seat.

"We won't both fit in there."

"Is this another cleverly veiled comment as to the size of my butt?" Jane asked.

_Was she teasing her?_

"What?! No, hell no. I didn't mean anything about your butt, it's just that the seat is too small for the both of us, and it looks pretty tight, your ass… I mean, god no, not that, I meant the seat, looks like it would be very tight in there… fuck! No— the, the fit… that is, it would be very difficult to get two people into that swivel chair."

Jane was smiling up at Anna and her shoulders were shaking.

"Shut up and scroll down the feed," Anna said. She plopped down, half on top of the woman's left thigh. It was warm, at odds with the cooler temperature in the shack. The contact made Anna's skin thrum.

"If you think this is tight, you should try crawling through air ducts," Jane offered.

"I'll pass. Now, tell me more about these girls."

"There's not much more to them. Vapid underachievers, from the looks of it. They had a brush with stardom in the early 2000s. Apparently released a sibling girl-group album with a decently performing single."

"So you _do_ know about music!"

"I read it in an article while doing research," Jane said.

"What was it called?"

"_Making Waves with You_."

"Now that's just sad," Anna said.

"The title?"

"Your lack of music knowledge. Remind me to burn you CD, or at least send you a playlist."

Her eyes read posts and messages, took in colons and dashes and parentheses. With the advent of iPhone tech, the girls had escalated to communication via emojis. None of their posts contained much substance.

"Yep. I'm with Ursula on this one. Who would want to give over half the stock of a Fortune 100 to this sorry lot? Not one MBA in the bunch," Anna said.

"She's got to figure out something soon," Jane said.

"Why is that?"

An image of two huge shriveled black beans appeared.

"What am I looking at?" Anna asked.

"Ursula Carol's lungs. Cancer. Stage three."

Anna didn't respond for a while. She was too busy processing. She'd missed out on the majority of Hans's run through due to passing out in a puddle of drool. She'd been reprimanded accordingly and, after vomiting at least seventy-five percent of her stomach contents, had resolved to catch up on the case. Once her head was out of the toilet, Hans guilted (read, _ordered_) her into taking Jane shopping. Anna had had such a great time today, she could hardly remember why she'd put up such a fight last night.

_Was it really only last night?_

What she now knew, was that Ursula was vulnerable. Pitiable, yes, but also corrupt, malicious, and deserving of whatever ploy they were about to run on her. So was Triton, maybe to a lesser extent. They both had something at stake here. The buyout of the Conch cruise line was coming at a point when Ursula knew she didn't have much time left as a capable corporate head. She'd worked her entire life to get this company off the ground (stepping over or on top of as many people as she needed to get the job done, poor souls). And now, she was going to leave her life's work to a bunch of shareholders? She obviously didn't want to risk handing it off to the idiot seven raised by Triton. She was looking for a legacy. Maybe she was hoping that one of the girls would show some bite, some spirit at the board meeting for the cruise line acquisition. Maybe this was her own form of Darwinism. Whoever survived in the boardroom reaped the spoils.

_Don't give them what they want, give them the opportunity to get it._

"You have access to her medical records?" Anna asked.

"Obviously."

"Don't be mean. Can you pull up her file from… what was it? Twenty-five years ago?"

"Sure."

Anna's eyes scanned the document until she found what she was looking for.

"Bingo."

"What?"

"She's barren."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Twenty-five years ago, Triton had two daughters, with another baby coming. Ursula wasn't married, but at thirty, she was probably very conscious of her child-bearing window. Especially as the head of a major corporation. Though she hardly seems like the type to go the traditional route… She probably started wondering about her chances of conception should the opportunity present itself."

"And so she got… tested?"

"Yes. Right here," Anna said, pointing to one of the files. "Meanwhile, baby brother's poppin' 'em out faster than his little swimmers can get upstream; it'll all be split, seven ways, on his end of things. Meanwhile, she's got no one to pass on all of her hard work to. No one to groom for her position. She suspended her shares, took them out of the familial sphere, hoping that one of the girls would show enough moxy to win her favor."

"But they didn't."

"Right, which is why she never singled one of them out in her will. So now she's looking for a successor. She _wants_ to give her stake to someone, _wants_ for someone to prove themselves. That's why the daughters are attending the meeting. It's not just Triton splitting up his shares for all of them, she wants to see who the most bloodthirsty is going to be. Who'll sell the others out for the sake of the deal. In short, who will follow in her massive foot steps."

"Who do you think it will be?" Jane asked. "They all seem equally trite and insipid."

"Oh, it won't be in the family, I'm afraid," Anna said, smile tugging across her lips. "It doesn't matter who it is, as long as she _feels _a kinship to them," the copper haired girl explained.

Anna shifted to her right, her sweaty, bent knee hanging limply over Jane's exposed thighs. There was a draft above her head, hitting the back of her wet neck, the slick crease of her armpit. It chilled her, provided a slight out-of-body experience. Anna was diminishing moment by moment and A was taking over, plan forming, character building. Her environment, her knowledge was making her bold. And Jane's skirt was riding higher. The combination of scheming, chilling sweat and alabaster kneecap was turning her on.

She brushed a hand across Jane's knee, as if on accident, just to witness a reaction. There was none but a look; no bodily shivers, no sharp inhale, no uncomfortable shoulder roll. Just a twist of the neck and their eyes met, centimeters away from each other.

Anna watched as Jane licked her full lips, an inverted triangle of blueberry snow cone goo pointing down her chin to the rest of her sunburnt body.

_Flawless no more_.

But somehow, more perfect.

"Will you be working tomorrow?" Anna asked.

"Yes. I've got a lot of bugs to run and as many firewalls and accounts to break. It will probably take some time."

"I've got prep to do, too. Now that I know what Ursula wants."

"You sound… displeased about that."

"There are other people— things I could be doing," Anna let the statement hang in the air between them. The moisture helped, acted as platform for the letters to rest on. So Jane could take the words in her gloved hands, wring them out, mull them over, interpret them in whatever manner she chose. Anna inhaled and a fresh burst of mint hit her tongue, as distinctive and sharp as the first painful bite of Wrigley's Doublemint.

"What would you rather be doing?" Jane asked, unawares.

Anna had to stop herself from rolling her eyes.

_She didn't even know how to flirt, for fuck's sake._

"It's the Caribbean. Swimming, for one. Maybe parasailing, jet skiing, hiking, adventures behind private little waterfalls. They have scooter rentals. Sometimes I just like to people watch. A lot of people have a beer, or maybe Sex on the Beach?"

Jane's eyes widened.

"Does having one preclude the action of the other?"

"Beer is beer. Sex on the Beach is a cocktail," Anna explained.

"Oh. You made that intentionally confusing."

Anna shifted. Jane's bare shoulder blade was nestled against the skin of her own bare right shoulder. Equally as burned as her front, it pulsed heat into Anna's arm.

"You know other people sunbathe, lather oil all over each other."

"That's wise, or else it increases their chances for melanoma," Jane said innocently.

_And we're back to skin cancer. Mood—DOA._

Anna turned her head and snorted like a disagreeable filly. She removed herself from the tangled mass of limbs in the swivel chair, saddened by the retreating scent of mint.

"I really do have a lot to work on. An entire profile of Conch Cruises financials and personnel to study," Anna sighed. "But I'll see you tomorrow evening? To finalize everything?"

_Wow, hope that didn't come out as desperate as it sounded._

"Hans wants to meet up. So yes, I will see you."

"Great. And then the next day, showtime!"

"Showtime?" Jane mimicked, giving an odd little shake of her hands. Anna could tell she was aiming for an enthusiastic flourish of sorts but it came off as awkward and nervous and… So. Damn. Adorable.

Anna giggled. "I, well, I look forward to watching you work."

"You won't be able to watch me," Jane said. "You'll hear me, but nothing else. EPs for everyone."

"Oh," Anna said. "Well then."

"But that doesn't mean I won't be watching you. I've got a lot of live security feeds in the resort to hack." Jane wasn't looking at Anna. She was playing with the hem of her skirt again, but at least she had stopped covering up her torso with those closed-off crossed arms.

"I like watching you work," Jane said.

"Really?" Anna's face hurt from the size of her own smile. Though it might have been her own sunburn.

"Yes. You're so—"

_So what? Cool? Professional? Drop-dead sexy? Why thank you Jane, I've got an entire cabana to myself and a bottle of aloe lotion and you look like you need some help with that flushed skin—_

"—good at it. Interacting. Manipulating. Coercing. I'm a little afraid of you."

"I'm a little afraid of you," Anna said.

It was meant as a joke.

"I'm a little afraid of myself," Jane was staring at her hands again.

Bad sign.

"Hey," Anna said.

She didn't know why she needed to comfort the girl. She almost went back to her. Jane shook her head.

"Don't worry about it. Tomorrow?" Jane said.

"Tomorrow. And then—"

"Showtime."

* * *

_A/N: So, let's see... background+plot+Olaf+one-sided flirting=this chapter? I think that's the formula I was going for. Anyone confused? I like to answer questions. Look, the fanfiction website has provided a convenient little box for you to type any theories or ? into. How nice of them! Also, brownie points to anyone who noticed the reference to my other Frozen fic. It was fleeting, but it was definitely there._

_Have I thanked all of you for being supermegafoxyawesomehot? Because you are. Every. Single. One. _


	14. Conch Cruises Con

_So! I'm going to the out-door-woods this weekend, which means I won't be around the interwebs. Translation, you get a quicker update! Sadness, the next one probably won't be until Tuesday... I don't own Frozen._

* * *

"Thirty-three percent of residual shares."

"Thirty-three? You've got to be joking."

"Thirty-three is generous, considering your bull-shit offer. Plus commissions tied to ship capacities in the off-season, cataloged by our marketing team."

"Madison, control yourself."

"I think it's about time we go for a coffee break, wouldn't you say?"

One of Triton's girls, the only one to speak for the duration of the two-hour negotiation (battle), eked out a phrase that signaled a temporary truce.

Three more daughters were engrossed in their smart phones, another in a crossword puzzle, while one fire-engine red head stared dreamily at a dark page boy who had wheeled in the coffee cart.

_It'll never work. Two different worlds._

Ursula rose from the head of the table like a sea monster from the depths, the wall-length aquarium behind her throwing shadows over her sickly purple pallor, white hair thinning yet stubbornly styled. Anna almost admired the woman, coming to a board meeting only four days after a round of chemo. Two eels floated by the woman's shoulder, as if she were sprouting tentacled arms to choke the life from her corporate subordinates.

"Fine, but if you plan on stalling much longer, we're walking. We've got reps from Sandals, Carnival, and Atlantis on standby back at our home offices."

"Madison!" Hans called, as Anna swept onto the balcony in a huff of feigned fury.

Anna and Hans had walked into the board room all brief cases and business suits after Kristoff and Sven had incapacitated the actual reps from the cruise line that Seven Seas Trading was buying out. The Norwegian men were currently taking out most of the private foot security the Carols had hired to oversee their affiliate offices at Caneel Bay. Jane couldn't access the systems remotely; she had to be on an authorized computer to make any sort of transfers. Creating a phantom authorization code for her own systems would take too long, and would probably be detected before the transfer went through. That meant Jane had to get into the Seven Seas offices in the Caneel resort and install a program that would piggy-back the financial transfers once the account numbers and pass codes were entered. Third floor. Not many sophisticated electronic locks, but at least a dozen on hired security. Sven and Kristoff were more than happy to clear a path.

In the meantime, Anna was doing her damndest to get Ursula to trust her, and by 'her' she meant Madison Hannah.

Madison Hannah was ruthless, savvy, and the perfect lure for the kraken that was Ursula Carol. Graduating Yale with an MBA at twenty-one, Madison had been with Conch Cruises for two years, having interned in their finance department during her undergraduate summers. Anna had constructed a spectacular narrative for her alias, Madison rising through the ranks of a prep school and an early graduation, completing the dual undergrad and master's programs in a record amount of semesters. Her coveted externships with Conch and subsequent hiring gave her a higher profile; Jane had even taken some of Anna's fake news articles and uploaded them to the web, rearranging date and time stamps as needed to create a detailed electronic trail. It was Ursula's habit to do research on her acquisitions, as well as the people who were charged with negotiations. Ursula had Googled Madison Hannah and discovered a fierce young woman hellbent on business success, unfortunately overshadowed by her less driven, less responsible, but far more male brother, Thomas Hannah.

Cue Hans Westerguard.

Unlike Madison, Thomas took an extra two years at Brown, not Yale, to complete his degree. He was only at Conch because their father (a completely faked, but completely loaded software tycoon) had made a payment to Conch Cruises off the books to hire his son.

Ursula knew all of this; Hans had seen to it through his own manipulative techniques that her personal assistants, Flo and Jet, had briefed her prior to the meeting with the details of the Conch representatives' personal lives.

_Nothing like thinking you have the advantage in negotiations._

Anna threw the double doors to the balcony open with both hands, leaving the sterility of the board room for sunshine and sand-blinding white. Wave sounds and seagull screeches drummed in her ears, muffled only lightly by the nude EP Jane had slipped her that morning. She hitched a hip against the balcony, and pulled a small green box of Al Capone cigarillos from the inside of her navy blazer. She tamped it, and drew one, a dishwater brown tobacco stick with three times the potency of an average cigarette.

Anna needed to make a point.

The girl Ursula would choose as her successor was anything but average.

She even sprung for the industrial, Turbo Shagreen lighter instead of the fluorescent BICs she'd bypassed in the stained metal caddy at the convenience store yesterday. Anna was building a character, putting on a show, and that show needed props. Fortunately, the zillionaire in the cabana next to hers had an affinity for lighters retailing at $1,200. Unfortunately, he left his back sliding door unlocked while he played golf.

She popped the top open and flicked the thumbwheel, flame bursting like a hand-held Roman Candle. She ignited the tip of the cigarillo, and began puffing away. Pacing, arms crossed, all she had to do was wait.

Ursula squeezed through the doors, banging them behind her.

Anna spared her a glance, but didn't initiate.

_Let her think she's in control_.

Ursula's blood-red lips drew back over graying teeth, canines pointier than natural. She chuckled, deep, more hum than laugh, and took slow, lumbering strides to the opposite side of the balcony, pulling out her own package of cigarettes. She stuck a limp stick between the plump, blood-colored flesh and it flapped listlessly between her lips, her lighter _mysteriously _out of fluid and refusing to ignite.

"Need a light?" Anna asked, holding her own Turbo up, expression somewhere between consternation and wariness.

"Ummmhmmm," Ursula purred.

Anna lit while Ursula inhaled deeply, bulging breasts rising against the indecent plunge of her business jacket. She was much too old and much too sick to be wearing anything so revealing, and much too powerful to give a damn.

The pair were engaged in a stand-off with their respective tobaccos, neither wanting the vulnerability associated with launching the conversation.

Anna had already offered a light. Psychologically, she retained the upper hand; and Ursula, no matter how slightly, was in her debt.

"I won't go higher," Ursula said.

"Your brother will. And as CFO, he's got a little more weight to throw around, wouldn't you say?"

_Strike._

"You think this is my first negotiation, sweet child?" Ursula rasped. She was not stirred, not angry, not easily flustered.

"No. But from what I hear, it might be your last."

_Strike._

"You're very cruel to a dying woman."

"I am cruel to a corporate head who knows her way around a lowball offer. This isn't personal."

"That's a good mindset. It will serve you well, should you continue in this business."

"I'll be unemployed when this merger is complete, might as well go balls to the wall," Anna said, huffing against the saliva-slick end of her cigarillo. She peered out over the balcony and feigned disinterest. "But not for long."

"Why do you say that?"

"Unlike my fuck-up of a brother, I'm not afraid of stepping on a few toes to get what I want. I work hard and I'm damn good at what I do. I'll get a company to recognize that in no time."

"You're a little cocky," Ursula said.

"You're a little patronizing."

"I've earned that right, dear. It's thanks to people like me Yale even took you in the first place."

"I think it had more to do with my father's fat checkbook— wait. How did you know I went to Yale?" Anna asked in surprise.

"The same way you know I have cancer. Know thine enemy."

"You look like you have enough young girls to study," Anna said, inclining her head toward the board room. Triton's daughters were brainlessly milling about. Two had compacts out and another was taking a selfie, complete with pouted duck lips and peace sign.

_#boardroomboredom_

"Imbeciles, the lot of them."

"I would have killed them at school."

"You wouldn't have _seen_ them, let alone interacted with them at school," Ursula said, humming laugh going raspy. She took a long pull on her cigarette and exhaled, spiraling into a coughing fit. She gagged over the balcony railing and Anna walked… _unhurried but persistent, intent but aloof_… back inside the boardroom. She returned with Hans' handkerchief. When Ursula was finished hacking, the cotton swatch was blood-stained.

_Further indebted. _

Anna returned to her smoke and flicked the end into an ashtray shaped like a pineapple.

"It's episodes like that that make me think I should quit while I'm still young."

"There's always another vice to turn to," Ursula choked. "Triton has never been able to handle that much estrogen in his household. I'm surprised his liver's not kaput. He drinks like a fish."

"No family's perfect…"

"Your own brother dearest?"

"Let's not."

"Oh yes, let's!" Ursula said, happy the conversation had turned from her person. "Overshadowed by the son daddy always wanted? When did you stop being enough? When the breasts came and you weren't a tomboy anymore?"

Anna rolled her eyes and didn't reply. She fiddled with her nails, chewed the inside of a cheek. Tell-tell signs of irritation.

"Like I said, it doesn't matter. I'll get a job and— never mind."

"No. Go ahead, child. There are no secrets here."

Anna redirected her attention to Ursula's dimming gaze, stone countenance at a decaying façade. "I'm going to succeed. If that happens at my brother's expense… well, all the better."

Ursula turned back to the windows of the room, watched as Triton yanked the red-headed girl away from the coffee cart with more force than was necessary. Anna witnessed a brief exchange of words, a teary teenager, and a weary CFO. He took to the corner, reached into his suit, and withdrew a gold flask. Sepia liquid poured into weak coffee.

Ursula snarled.

"Can't even make it through one negotiation sober."

"At least your brother knows what he's talking about," Anna began.

"Barely."

"Mine can't even make it through a negotiation competently," Anna rolled her eyes and propped herself on the balcony railing. "I wish there was a way for me to get my feet in on something established," she continued. "A place that isn't too scared to take on some new talent. Stick with the business model, but let me do my thing while my brother sits with his thumb up his ass back at the condo in LA. I'm tired of him riding my coat tails."

_Take the bait, take the bait—"_

"How much sway do you have with your board?" Ursula asked.

"I'm not on the board, but I've been called in on a number of advising sessions."

"Would you be opposed to getting your hands a little dirty?"

"I've slept with a third of the accounting department. I've stooped to more for less reward."

"Take twenty for the company instead of your thirty-three plus commissions and I'll sweeten the deal for you, personally."

_Gotcha._

She didn't want to seem over eager. "Make it twenty-three and keep the commissions."

Ursula bowed her head, acquiescing.

"I'm listening," Anna said.

"Don't expect me to name you CEO," Ursula began. "But I can offer you a job here, once the deal goes through. You could act as my proxy, though you're terribly young—"

"Youthful, innovative, cutting-edge—"

"Presumptuous, crass, and rude," Ursula said, cutting her off. "According to the doctors, I've got a year and a half. Maybe more. Chemo seems to be slowing it down."

Anna nearly reached for that blood-spattered hankie to wave in her face.

"And unlike Triton, who seems intent on throwing everything out the window by crediting his daughters with unearned positions, I would actually like for this corporation to succeed. Leave an imprint on the world. Even if I'm not with it, it can still contribute to my…"

"Legacy?"

"Legacy. Perhaps, though that's sickeningly romantic," Ursula drawled. "Could you arrange the transfer in full? Bump up the time table to tomorrow?"

"I'd have to speak with the accountants. Well, really just Mr. Marlin, he's the current President of Conch. We were going to use that extra thirteen percent as severance pay to the staff we'd be letting go."

"Pity."

"They can get other jobs," Anna said, smile widening. "Brother dearest will have to."

Hans was currently engaged with one of Triton's daughters, both flirting mercilessly.

"So do we have a deal?" Ursula asked, extending a hand.

Anna watched it, the offending appendage likely to transform into the maw of a shark if she wasn't on guard.

"I have to be there when the transfer goes through," Anna said.

"Of course."

"And I want a job offer on paper. Notarized, none of this, she-said she-said bullshit."

"That you shall have. But I haven't got all day, I'm a very busy woman."

Anna took Ursula's hand and gave it a firm shake, the pair of women both thinking:

_Now I've got her._

* * *

Anna followed Ursula down a hallway the following morning at ten a.m. She bypassed Sven and Kristoff, noting that Ursula gave the black-suited men a nod of her head as she traversed the third floor of the Caneel Bay resort which doubled as the Seven Seas affiliate offices. Caneel Bay was a subsidiary of the Carol's company, after all. They moved together, a blob of business-formal pinstripes and pencil skirts, until they reached the door to Ursula's office.

The same door Jane had waltzed right through one day previously.

Ursula sat at her desk and booted up her computer.

The self-same desk and computer Jane had compromised with her—techy stuff— bugs, viruses, trackers, whatever the hell the blonde did to make this so easy. Anna couldn't very well stand over her shoulder to get the fifteen-digit account number as Ursula initiated the transfer, but that didn't mean she couldn't exert her sensory perception to the fullest:

The office wasn't overly homey: a copy of Ursula's diploma from Harvard business school was framed on the wall above the woman's left shoulder; a picture of her breaking a bottle of champagne against the hull of a massive ship, her company's first purchase, in what looked to be late eighties garb; a full pill box at the corner of her desk, clacking and taunting their consumer into a quicker concession.

_Death_.

"Madison Hannah, our attorneys, Mr. William Turner and Captain James Norrington."

"Captain?"

"JAG division, Miss Hannah," Norrington replied.

"It seemed handy to have someone familiar with naval litigation and maritime law," Ursula said. "His retainer's a little salty, though."

The lawyers smiled at each other while Anna waited her turn.

"I believe this is what we're here for, Miss Madison?"

Turner passed off a contract of employment to Anna, who spent a good five minutes going over the fine print.

Ursula watched from her desk with steepled fingers, face torn between admiration and hostility.

"You find the arrangement to your liking, child?" Ursula asked.

"Might we include a clause which prohibits you from calling me 'child' in professional circles? It's only going to hurt my credibility as eventual successor."

"An endearment, nothing more. And 'successor' is not a guarantee, Madison," Ursula chided.

The shift in address did not go unnoticed; the lawyers stiffened.

"And everything is good on your end?" Ursula asked. "You've spoken with Marlin and we've knocked the offer down to $67 million, not a cent more."

"Well, you know, processing fees—"

"Madison."

"It took some work. I only needed to remind him how desperate he was."

"For the money?"

"Well…" Anna turned so the lawyers could not see her and made a gesture toward the length of her body. "You'll find that I'm very persuasive. And I'm not above blackmail."

"Oh really?"

"Mr. Marlin is recently remarried and has a son he's only just gotten reacquainted with. Wouldn't want to shatter that image he's worked so hard to build."

"Very well then. Sign the papers and hand it off to Norrington."

Anna did so.

"And now," Ursula typed into her computer, Anna desperately trying to take note of her fingers. Moments later, her desk phone rang.

"Lagan," she said into the receiver. "Conch Cruises." Silence.

Anna was straining to hear, but at the same time doing her best to look only mildly interested. That morning, Jane had fitted her with an undetectable microphone, a device thirteen times more sensitive to sound than the ones used by undercover ops with the DEA and ATF.

Anna heard the receiver ask for Ursula's passcode.

Ursula was on her desk phone, not at her affiliate offices. The numbers beeped different tones, but Anna had been memorizing those pitches for over a decade.

_Pass code, got it!_

Ursula turned back to her computer; the process for corporation funding transfers had to be made in front of members representing both parties in the transaction. For the moment, Anna constituted Conch's member.

Only Anna didn't work for Conch cruises.

When it was all said and done, the Seven Seas would be quite literally drained and Conch Cruises would have grounds for a legal suit. Let them try for a buyout with one of their other resort offers.

"Gather round, all," Ursula instructed.

"These are the correct numbers for the Conch accounts?" Ursula asked.

Anna nodded; and they really were. Conch's bank would send Ursula a confirmation email once the transaction was finished.

But Anna would be off the island before a representative from Conch noticed the discrepancy. It's only withdrawals that shoot off red flags… never deposits.

While looking at the screen, Anna did her best to memorize the three fifteen-digit account numbers making up the Seven Seas buyout payments. Unlike Conch, Seven Seas Trading never withdrew from a single account, Ursula and Triton actually agreeing that dividing the financial burden of mergers and buyouts among several departments would ease the pain on their primary purchasing account. One of the only things the siblings agreed on.

"So it's done?" Anna asked, numbers whizzing through her head. It was moments like these when she wished she had Jane's talents. Organization and compartmentalizing seemed much easier for her.

"That's all there is too it. The cash flow is happening, expect email confirmation within the hour, the signed contract will be mailed once Turner and Norrington lick the stamp."

"A pleasure, Ms. Carol," Anna said.

"The pleasure's all mine, dear. I just bought another fleet, and my next little minion."

"I think I prefer 'sweet child' to that moniker."

"Just keep in mind… I own you." Less reminder and more threat.

_BULLFUCKINGSHIT, PURPLEPEOPLEEATER._

"For now," Anna said, not bothering with Turner and Norrington. Let them think her a bitch. Ursula _would_ cultivate such a woman into her heir. "But if you'll excuse me," Anna said, taking the employment contract and incoming confirmation fax from the machine, "I have to go and dig my brother out of a sand dune. He was at the cantina all night while I was swimming in Excel spreadsheets. I'm sure in nine months time I'll be the aunt to an island bastard. Good day, gentlemen. Ursula… we should probably schedule a meeting."

"I would like that."

Before Anna even got on the elevator she was listing numbers under her breath to Jane through the miked earpiece. They were switching in her head, out of place and blurring, columns and rows and diagonals of numerals playing tricks on her mind like an inconstant Sudoku.

"… 1-9-7-4-1-9-9-0-2-2-3-7…"

"I need the final sequence," Jane said over her ear piece.

"3-8-8-1-1-2-8-9-5-9-2— wait, they're dates," Anna walked by an actual light bulb in the hallway as the realization struck her.

"For what?"

"When were Triton's daughters born?" Anna asked.

"One sec… Olaf!"

Anna heard some muttering on the other end of the line.

"March 13, 1988, January 31, 1989, December 29, 1989, woah, two in one year—"

"That's the final sequence! The next one is sometime in May of '92," Anna squealed. "From the first born, in descending order, the month, then the last two digits of the year. Since there were two that were born in the same year, he was able to abbreviate, and get the fifteen digits in."

"So that's Triton's direct account?" Jane asked.

"Probably his purchasing account. And Ursula's isn't that difficult to crack either. 1974 was the year she graduated from Harvard; I saw it on her diploma in her desk. In 1990, her first cruise line purchase bought out a fleet of twenty-two ships. Thirty-seven, the number of subsidiaries Seven Seas currently owns—"

"I get it, A," Jane said. "Did you get the pass code?"

"One sec," Anna darted into the lobby and made her way to the concierge desk. "Is there a payphone around here?"

The chipper attendant directed her to the corner, and Anna set to furiously decoding the tune in her ear. Was that an _F_? Or maybe a _G_? She played with the notes on the dial pad until it matched the ones on her phone.

She had recorded the entire conversation.

_Now that's what I call foresight, bitches!_

"Alright, Jane, the passcode is 7-6-5-6-7-6-5-4-3."

"And what does that number correspond with?"

"The sounds on my keypad. Ti-la-so-la-ti-la-so-fa-mi."

"What alien language are you speaking now?"

"That's _The Sound of Music_ and it is a classic!" Anna huffed in midair, startling a passing family clad in tropical shirts and sandals with socks.

"Careful now, wouldn't want everyone thinking you're crazier than you already are," Jane said.

"What?"

"You probably ruined that poor family's trip. Unnerving them so that they may never recover," Jane teased.

"How did you know?"

"Look to your right… now up about four feet."

Anna was staring at a security camera, red light filming her every action. Jane had said she would be hacking the feeds…

"You think you're so smart, don't you?"

The camera moved up and down on its pivot, certainly thinking highly of itself for a recording device.

"You've been watching me the whole time?"

The camera nodded again.

"I told you I would be," Jane said through the ear piece.

"That's a little creepy," Anna answered. "Did you learn anything?"

The red light on the camera's front covering moved up and down, up and down.

"And you think I'm the most _amazing_ grifter in the world?"

The camera halted its movement, this time swiveling back and forth.

"I know, I know, don't get cocky," Anna said. "But at least you learned the scale equivalencies from _The Sound of Music_. Everybody knows that, even guys."

The camera didn't move this time.

"When we're all finished here, we could… watch it, if you wanted? I'd have to explain everything, like why they're speaking English in Austria, for one. But it's okay if you don't—"

The camera had started moving again. This time, a very deliberate up and down motion.

Anna beamed up at the lens.

Everything had gone so perfectly today.

That is, until it all went horribly wrong.

* * *

_A/N: In my document manager, I literally titled this chapter, "The cliffs, they must hang!" In which everyone pelts me with rotting vegetables for leaving them at this point. I apologize. But thanks again to everyone following and reviewing. I'm trying really hard to reply to everyone who's got their pm's enabled, just to let you know I really appreciate it. And if you're a guest, I STILL APPRECIATE IT. Thank you thank you thank you thank you. More to come._


	15. Drowning

_I don't own Frozen._

* * *

"And that's how it's done boys!" Anna said, clinking her mojito with two beer bottles in the piano bar on the ground floor of the Caneel Bay resort. Rich cherry wood booths lined the walls, open shutters and breezeway offering solace to the overheated patrons as Benny the bar tender arranged orange slices and cherries on the rims of fruity cocktails. It was a bit of celebration, mission complete and all that. Hans had turned up his nose at frequenting an establishment as pedestrian as a resort lobby bar, but Jane should be down once she finished her techno witchcraft.

The blonde had snuck up to the third floor of the building to hack into Ursula's accounts on the authorized computer, outfitted in black again because she insisted Sven and Kristoff have the night off.

"I'll be perfectly content going in through the window," Jane had said.

"But they'll be guards outside of the office. You only got by them yesterday because the boys helped. And Kristoff said they were professionals. Like, 'dishonorable discharge and looking for something to hit' professionals. They'll be doubly on guard after what the boys did to them," Anna had argued.

"No need to worry. I'll be in and out before anyone notices. Your seventy-five million is safe."

Anna almost told her it wasn't the money she was worried about. Old Anna would have suspected the woman didn't want witnesses while she transferred the entirety of the company's assets to her personal account, forgoing a five-way split for a singular treachery. The situation wasn't sitting completely well with 'A'. But this new Anna somehow recognized Jane's intent as sincere, and was walking that fine line between doubt and trust. It felt very much like balancing on a power line forty feet above the ground. If something electrifying didn't kill her, the fall would get its chance. Or she could make it across, safe, sound, and better for the experience.

_Who knew?_

Anna was jostled from her thoughts by the buzz of Sven's phone. The hairy man took out the device and tapped on the screen all thumbs, smiling as he shoved the piece into Kristoff's face.

"Hey, hey, hey!" Kristoff said. "Look at all those zeroes!"

Anna studied the screen, a confirmation email one of Sven's Swiss accounts had received of a seventy-five million dollar deposit. As Anna admired the admittedly sinful progression of zeroes, several things happened at once:

The stampede of boots in the front lobby; men shouting, "They called for backup!"; the screen of Sven's phone hiccupping, words and backlight blurring as the device powered down; the fixtures in the bar dimmed; the light bulbs on the far side of the wall burst in a ripple of shattering glass, staining the room with subdued ocean twilight and serrated shards.

"Shit," Anna said, standing from her stool. "Something's happened."

"What the- Let's bolt!" Kristoff said, rising.

"We can't leave her!"

"You saw the email! The transaction already went through."

"But there's something _wrong_."

"And I'd rather not stay to find out what it is. I've got a speed boat and a tank of gasoline that can put us on the next island by nightfall, if we leave now."

"She's the one who got us the money in the first place!"

"A, you hardly know that woman, she's probably fine."

At that declaration, the lights flickered back on, and then the corner stereo began blasting Jimmy Buffet's "Cheeseburger in Paradise."

"Nothing to worry about folks," the bartender said. "I'll just get on the phone with maintenance, see if we can—"

Two more men in black dashed through the lobby.

"— or maybe I should call management. Security's gone SWAT mode."

"I'm going to help her."

"What are you going to do, A?" Kristoff asked.

"I'm not going to sit around and let her get caught. If only because she knows too much about us and will turn state's evidence if she gets arrested."

It was a weak defense and she knew it. But hell if she was going to let Jane take the fall for all of them. Something inside her torso was straining, tight, like a rubberband pulled to its tension limit. Or a muscle, resisting a stretch after going unused for some time. It was new and scary and it _hurt_.

The heart was a muscle.

_Funny._

"Let's go," Kristoff grunted.

The trio found the maintenance stairs, Anna taking unhurried, calculated steps down the labyrinth of Caneel Bay's third floor. Sulfur scents lingered in the walls, seeped from the tropical patterned rugs, burrowed into the fern leaves placed in the corners of the hallways. Anna imagined standing on a metal floor furnace in sneakers, heat scorching rubber, the stench migrating to her nostrils.

That's what this smelled like.

Turning another corner, that's when she noticed the thick swamp of bodies. All men upwards of six feet, all burly, all unconscious, dead, or otherwise incapacitated on the floor. The door to Ursula's office was open. Anna picked her way over the casualties, tripping over someone's head.

"The hall of bodies before you should have been a sign not to come in," she heard Jane's voice through the open doorway. "Unless you want to join your coworkers in their varying states of semi-consciousness."

Anna had never heard Jane sound like that before. She had heard removed, apathetic, teasing, confused, threatened, insecure, and even socially ignorant, but never… never this.

It was controlled, harsh, commanding and low. Not a voice one would defy lightly. It was the Ice Queen.

The click-clack of fingers on a keyboard sounded, even this far away.

_She must be typing a mile a minute._

"Jane?" Anna called out.

"A? A, is that you?"

"Kristoff and Sven are here, too," she said uncertainly. She was now painfully aware that she knew next to nothing about the woman behind the computer, crush or no crush. Like how she could disable half a dozen men double her size. Or how her voice, the same one that laughed over something as innocuous as a _snow cone_ could drop to nothing short of a death threat.

It was a whole new level of disconcerting. Anna knew that Jane was a criminal, hell, _she_ was a criminal, but she had never considered the possibility that Jane might be... bad. She had never feared the blonde, all ropes and computers and shiny multifacets. And maybe this was Jane's version of performance, metaphorically raising her hackles and baring her teeth in threatening vocal tones as a warning to _stay back_. She had at least _warned_ her. A bad person wouldn't give people the chance to run, right?

"A, you might want to get in here. Actually, it concerns all of you, but someone should probably stand guard," Jane said.

"More back up will come if they don't hear anything from the first crew," Kristoff said.

"How long do we have?" Anna asked.

"Depends. Maybe ten minutes, maybe three."

"Then let's go talk to her."

She and Kristoff worked their way over the rest of the bodies and saw Jane, as expected, typing furiously at Ursula's computer.

"Damn, damn, no, not the— oh, FUCK!" the blonde screamed, slamming a gloved hand against the monitor.

"What's wrong?" Anna asked. Back in her black t-shirt and harness, Jane was unconcerned with the two large security men lying at her feet. She was panicky but rigid, lightening in her eyes and tear tracks down her cheeks. Yet there was no waver in her voice. A salty drop leaked out from the forget-me-nots and fell, silently, on Ursula's desk.

Jane's face remained blank.

"Hans fucked us."

"What?" Anna asked, coming over to the screen.

"He knew my signature coding, the piggy-back tracker I use to open accounts…" Jane said, black boxes full of green symbols littering the desktop. "And I can't bypass it. I'd need two days, on this computer, and we don't have that kind of time. I stalled the transfers because he had them rerouted to deposit into his account when I activated the sequence, but it didn't take."

"How do you know it was him?"

Jane pressed a button and a picture of Hans popped up, flipping off the camera as dollar signs paraded around the border. The caption read, 'sucks to suck, fuckers'. The background was of a private jet that Anna recognized from a German air company. Date and time stamp read that afternoon at three p.m.

"Are you fuckin' kidding me?" Kristoff stormed over to the computer. He stepped on one man's nose and nearly fell over. In his frustration, he kicked a body, and Anna heard a sickening _crunch_.

Anna flinched.

Jane did not.

"Did we get anything?!" he bellowed.

"I was able to divert a portion, but I couldn't get it all."

"How much?"

"Five a piece."

"Please tell me that's million," Kristoff said.

"Yes."

Anna breathed a sigh of relief. She had had bigger payouts, bigger jobs certainly, but five million was nothing to sneer at. It's not like the government was taking _taxes_ out of it.

"You mean to say he screwed us out of seventy million dollars?!" Kristoff said.

"Who gives a fuck about your goddamn money," Jane replied, stone faced.

"I think we all just need to calm down for a minute," Anna said, lunging between the two. Kristoff had taken a step toward Jane, bowing up, brow lowering like a knight's visored helm.

"What are you going to do, hit me?" Jane said again. She was back in her lower register, raspy and distant. Almost a taunt. As if her intention _were _for Kristoff to hit her.

"It won't bring your money back," the blonde girl continued.

"Pardon me if I get a little testy when I've just been fucked in the ass by some pretty boy con," Kristoff grumbled. "I hit things. It makes me feel better."

"I'd like to see you try," Jane said, standing from behind the desk.

"The fuck do you think you are?!"

"No one!" Jane yelled, eyes darting back to the computer. Like she saw something they couldn't. "I'm not anyone, I never have been. And now, I'm less than I was before. I am a negative ratio, imaginary, a negative square root of a singular, compromised—"

"The hell is she talking about?" Kristoff said.

"Because, how sad it is that he took your money, Kristoff. You can invest in a few handkerchiefs to dry your tears with the five million you do have. Not to mention all the future jobs you can take to acquire more money. Not like he took your unhackable _signature_ coding."

"Jane, you're upset," Anna tried to interject. "We all are, but it's not safe for us to stay here."

"You," Jane seethed, eyeing Anna skeptically. Her arms crossed over her chest mechanically, metal links over her harnessed waist tinkling like sad wind chimes. "What was I thinking?"

Jane turned around and opened the window.

There was a loud grunt and the sounds of a scuffle from the end of the hall.

"Company!" Kristoff shouted, and dashed after Sven.

"Jane—"

"What?!"

"What are you doing?" Anna asked.

"I'm _leaving_. What does it look like?"

"But, I thought we could—"

"What? You thought we could what, A? Be _friends_? We're criminals! We're not good people. I'm not— look at what I do!" she shouted, waving a hand at the floor. It was her first acknowledgement of the bodies on the ground, the admission not that of a child, squealing for attention. It was a lament, a dirge directed toward the prostrate men. They hadn't moved since Anna had set foot in the room. There were burns on their palms, and Anna could finally pinpoint the stomach-churning scent: sizzled flesh.

She wasn't even sure they were breathing.

"Look at what I could do…" Jane said, more tears leaking.

"Jane, I'm sure you do whatever's necessary—"

"It's not something I can control," Jane exhaled, wringing her hands together like stubborn laundry. Anna thought she might be hyperventilating. "He took my precision— my restraint! They caught me off guard when the system froze… the guns… and I couldn't hold it back…"

"If they had a gun, that's all you could do," Anna said. Jane's actions: violent, uncontrolled, deadly… Anna was still unsure of what Jane had done to immobilize the security, but she knew hysterics when she saw them. She needed to calm Jane down. "They pushed you. It was justified."

"Justified? God A, do you see what you're standing in? I _kill_ people, I _hurt_ people. He knows what I can… the picture… My only safeguard was my anonymity, and my code, using the computer to clear my head, keep it down!"

"Don't panic, Jane! Keep— keep _what_ down?"

"A!"

"Hrrrggghhh!"

"They're calling for you," Jane said, hitching a leg over the windowsill. The sun was down now, night born as the day and all its possibilities waned.

"So he stole your computer program thingie, screw him," Anna said, edging closer to Jane. The blonde took her other foot and pulled herself through the windowsill, her lower body now gone as she propped herself with her hands in the window. "We can get him back!" Anna tried, desperate. "With your hacking skills and my connections, we can find him—"

"Stop it, A. It's not just the code, he took my _control_. He sent me a message, in the stalling program."

"What did it say?"

"None of your concern. But he knows about me. About who I am. No one knows that, I've made sure of it. I don't... _I _don't even know."

"I thought… maybe, I did?" Anna said quietly. "Or that I, could. We were… we were going to be friends, Jane."

"I knew this was a bad idea from the start, because just like he took my code…" she pleaded with her eyes, the blonde intimately cataloging every feature of Anna's face. It was that attentive study, that discomfiting gaze raking her form like she was something recognizable, like Jane was desperately trying to remember her. The blankness had faded from the blonde's face and emotion returned. An emotion Anna recognized all too well: fear.

"… you'll take something from me, too. And when you do, I won't be able to restrain myself. I would hurt you."

"Jane, I would never, _you_ would never."

"You can't know that! I don't even _know _you. And you can never know me."

"We were going to stop all this," Anna pleaded. "We were going to get out. Comrades, remember?"

_Please Jane, just give me something here._

"A pipe dream at best," Jane said.

"I don't understand."

"Neither do I. I never have."

And with that, Jane let go of the windowsill.

"JANE!"

Anna rushed to the window and watched as a figure jogged across the road and turned toward the harbor.

The ocean was glittering reflected starlight.

Or maybe, Anna was crying.

* * *

"Kristoff!"

"We need to leave, now," Kristoff hauled Anna up by her elbow, dragging her through to the stairwell while Sven barreled over a bewildered maintenance man.

"Just how many of those guys did they have here?" Anna asked.

"I'm guessing a dozen on-site security, but we're missing a few. Probably patrolling the perimeter if they're a private service for hire. Checking to see who's gonna run. Some of them are ex-Marines," Kristoff explained.

"How do you even know that?"

"Their fighting stance, and their tats. Among other things. C'mon, we need to get to the docks."

The island police were pulling into the parking lot of the resort as Sven, Kristoff and Anna sprinted across the highway toward the beach. It was a half-mile to the docks at the harbor, assuming that's where Kristoff had parked his speedboat. With any luck, she'd be able to catch Jane before the blonde made her own escape.

And figure out just what the _hell_ was going on.

Anna heard the screaming before she saw the action.

And sometimes that's worse. Hearing the agony before seeing it with your own eyes. Because hearing, in its sensory aspect, allows the imagination to run unbridled, chock-full of unlikely scenarios, sometimes worse than the actuality.

When Anna saw three men cornering Jane, she knew the guards patrolling the resort perimeter had given chase to the thief descending from their boss's window. A fourth was beating Jane with a black baton.

Anna then preferred the auditory uncertainty to the visual reality.

"Stop it!" she cried, racing toward the crowd. "Stop hitting her! She's down, she's submitted, you can stop now!"

Anna didn't know if Kristoff and Sven were following her. But Jane was staggering to her feet and the security men looked like they were gearing up for round two. Anna launched herself at the nearest man, glancing a blow on the side of his head. It earned her a backhand to the face.

She gripped her cheek in hand, kaleidoscopic images shooting across her vision as the pain flared.

"Don't hurt her—"

Anna heard again, before she saw. Jane's low voice, brittle and fragile as moth's wings. More scuffling sounds, and grunts. A fist flashed forward and Anna ducked, prepping for a blow that never landed.

Despite the disorientation from the previous smack, she watched as Jane took the brunt of the blow on the left side of her skull. The smack was concussion-worthy, Jane's figure limply crumbling over the dockside and into the open water.

Anna dove into the harbor, bobbing body and double-vision destabilizing her equilibrium. She opened her eyes against the stinging salt, the shallow, licorice-dark water swallowing an incapacitated Jane. Anna groped blindly, searching for purchase in the inky blackness. Her head smarted, her eyes burned, and her heart wept bloody tears because it was all too confusing and unfortunate and hopeless.

Her hand felt sand. She had reached the sea-bed, still no Jane.

The tides took pity on her, Anna feeling fabric and a twisted braid seconds after reaching the bottom. She hooked her left elbow under Jane's armpit and pushed, with all of her remaining strength, off the floor of the harbor. Her ears popped on her ascent and she watched, horrified, as Kristoff and Sven engaged in a two-to-one outnumbered fistfight. Anna couldn't drag the both of them up the ladder on the pier so she course-corrected, heading for the open water that would take her to the beach. Every second counted with the unconscious girl at her side, the lack of oxygen no doubt vegetating the most brilliant mind Anna had ever come into contact with. Her own lungs burned from the effort and her brain was banging against her skull like a kick-drum.

Anna's feet hit sand and she dragged Jane onto the beach, pumping hands on a water-logged chest. A flirtatious tide tickled her ankles, urging her to leave the hopeless, to walk away from the difficult, dying girl before her. _Just_ _come and play_.

"Stayin' alive, stayin' alive, ha-ha-ha-ha."

It was so grotesquely appropriate. She'd once heard on the radio that the famous disco song was the correct tempo for chest compressions during CPR.

_Please please please please please—_

She tilted the blonde's face skyward to the bashful stars, forcing her chin down and pinching the nostrils on her lightly freckled nose. Anna inhaled so deeply she thought her toes could feel it, and then placed her mouth over Jane's. She blew long and strong, watching for the tell-tell expansion of the woman's chest. It moved, but only slightly. Anna whimpered over their squashed faces, sound reverberating over stilled skin and cartilage and bone and being. Another breath on briny lips, and she returned to Jane's chest.

Anna continued compressions. With her luck, she'd break a rib, or puncture a lung. The desperate pumping was in no way as violent as the beating the blonde had suffered, but any scrambling of distended organs could injure Jane further. Anna would willingly give up her five million _and_ her own hall of French paintings to avoid such an occurrence.

Back to the mouth and Anna breathed into Jane, startled when she felt a twitch along the gums, a clack of teeth and surge of tongue. This was the part where Jane was supposed to roll over on her side and cough up every ounce of seawater holding her sky-blue eyes hostage. The part where they hugged and apologized, and pinky-swore to take Hans down through fine-tuned manipulation. Where they motored to a neighboring island to lick their wounds and drink a little, deciding that this friendship might well be worth all this hell they're currently experiencing.

But none of that happened.

The last thing Anna remembered was the contraction of Jane's minty lips, an electric surge rocketing through her synapses, and the serenity of oblivion as her heart stopped.

* * *

_*returns from weekend* *opens inbox* WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO?! *proceeds to hyperventilate because I know what comes at the end of chapter fifteen*  
_

_A/N: Sooooooo... Not typically fond of cliffhangers? Wanting the babies to go ahead and kiss? That translates to (for me) more cliffhangers, and sort-of kisses that fry the kisser. At least I updated a day earlier than I said I would? I have hope in the fact that you can't kill me because the story will die with me. I'll hold on to that idea as you chase me with torches and pitchforks.  
_

_Love you all for your passionate responses, follows and favs. The people who read Stolen Ice seem to really love it, and for that, I am grateful :D Stay tuned.  
_


	16. Unconscious Benefits

_I don't own Frozen._

* * *

People don't typically appreciate prolonged periods of unconsciousness. There is an insurmountable lack, an acknowledged _missing_, when you return to the conscious state. Missed time. Missing out. Missed opportunities. Missing, miss, missed, misses. Or, the missing of _being_ missed. If you were unconscious, how could you ever respond to a search call, a signal flare… the kind of alert that others performed to let you know that you are _worth it_ and you are _missed_.

Yet the stupor of the unconscious is safe-haven; it is remote and removed and resplendent in its blankness.

Why do so many seek the blackout? Lethe-like waters of alcohol, coma-inducing nothing of drugs? There must be some redeeming factor to a state of obstinate unawareness.

Forgetting.

It's a memory slippage, the way things were and then weren't, due to a disremembering. Like a tree falling in an abandoned forest (sound? silence?), does an action retain its consequence (guilt?) if you forget the episode entirely? Does losing a part of yourself even matter if you never knew you were a _self_ to begin with? Being unconscious is like an intractable forgetting. Some huge moments you may never recall, but the innocuous actions still possess startling potency in a hazy dream state.

Like sugar water on a wrist.

Or the lending of a skirt, the first experience with _sharing_ in a selfish world.

Promises of future activities, movie-dates and mixed audio discs.

A shock of red hair, and a smile as blinding as the sun.

Little moments that seep through to oblivion, persist in dream-like manifestations. An osmotic anchor for the soul to reality.

Jane had spent eight months of her childhood in an unconscious state.

And waking from the detachment, a little girl with a big power, had nearly sent her back to a state of nothing. This time permanently. This time, willingly.

Awake, she destroyed. Hospital bed linens were singed. The television screen imploded when Jane merely _looked_ at the thing. Nurses would seize as they tucked her in at bedtime. Bedtime tuckings were disbanded after three repeated incidents. The electronic bed had a mind of its own, bucking her up and dropping her flat on an unforgiving mattress, her home for over half a year.

She hated awake, hated awareness. But she feared sleep more.

She feared never waking up again, even if she knew it was for the better.

And any memories Jane might have had… they were no longer. When she was older, she imagined that the initial surge had gone through and wiped every recollection, good or bad, from the deepest recesses of her brain. Whatever malevolent, universal power had _done_ this to her, it wanted her blank. Untainted. A virginal mind, cleared by deletion.

Or partial lobotomy by electrocution.

Waking was consciousness. Jane's awareness that she was dangerous, unpredictable, and afflicted.

Jane had run the day after the social worker came to the hospital in Little Rock, stagnant muscles spurred by tiny jolts of electric life across the myosin proteins and actin sheaths of her youthful quadriceps. Her condition spurred her to research, and research to further solitude. Solitude begat more research, until the cycle left her with computers, an outlet (not of the wall variety) for a mental expulsion.

Physical expulsion was riskier, especially as a child. But at thirteen, she'd made her way to the middle of bum-fuck nowhere, stripped so as to avoid any burns in her garments, and walked into a field somewhere near the Ozarks. For hours, townsfolk from miles away watched as brilliant heat lightening seemed to strike from the ground up, a lonely vector attempting to contain itself, until it hit the clouds above and branched, reaching desperately, for the other half of its pair.

Jane hated the action of waking, because it meant she had to face her fears.

She had to face herself.

* * *

Jane woke reluctantly. To slippery flesh, balmy and visceral against her mouth. She started. And in her shock, came _the _shock. The jolts and Joules and sparks and specks zinging through her conductor of a body and pouring into the person at her mouth.

_A._

_A._

_A._

"No— achhk," Jane surged, off of her back and onto her side, hacking the gallons of sea water in her lungs onto the night sand.

_Composure. Get it together. She's __**hurt**_**. **_Because of __**you**__._

What do you do to combat electric shock?

Femoral and carotid arteries. Pulse.

_Check her pulse._

Jane removed her saturated gloves with shaking hands, and placed two fingers at A's cinnamon-dusted neck. She looked paler by moonlight, pulseless.

Succumbing to ventricular fibrillation meant a heart out of sync, and running out of time.

_I need a defibrillator_.

Jane periscoped her head about, but ducked at the sound of gunshots, covering A's body with her own. She only saw sand, boats, and blue siren lights from up the road.

She should run. Leave the rest of them to their fate, she had already done enough. Her last contact, ocean water and saliva and _connection_ had dismantled her friend.

Her friend.

_Her friend._

Jane took a deep breath and found the hem of A's shirt. Iridescent pearl buttons, for she had been in a conference with Ursula that very morning. She yanked it open, and stared at a pinkish torso that was either burnt from the sun or from her own mouth. Jane prayed for the former.

Still shaking, she placed her hands on either side of A's ribcage, whimpering slightly as her fingers migrated underneath the lining of the girl's white cotton brassiere. The swell of A's breasts met padded fingertips, and Jane found herself terrified by the uncharacteristic dullness of her form.

So she tried it.

_A jolt_.

She removed her hands and felt for a pulse. Nothing. She pounded a few times against A's sternum, pleading for a beat. Desperate for a beat.

Once more, but this time, closer to the source. She placed her right hand back where it had been, but the other migrated under the cinch at A's cleavage, the intimacy of Jane's fingers sliding between pert breasts disregarded in hopes of finding the space where a working heart should thump, triumphantly.

A larger surge this time.

A's body shook as Jane's hands shot power into her prostrate form. Jane pushed down against skin, willing the very unwilling heart to instill life back into a girl who deserved much more life than Jane ever would.

_The heart is not so easily changed._

A's cough was a nocturne, the night turned hopeful once more.

Jane's eyes zipped north to A's face, the young girl's dry barking and gasping the most pleasing moment of her entire stay on the island.

A attempted movement, focus floating down.

Jane's fingers flexed to hold her in place, unsure of any possible neuropathy with a jolt originating at A's head. But A was all at once immobile, curled fingers digging tracks in sand as she stared at Jane's hands, then at Jane's face, then back to her hands again.

Jane watched as her jaw relaxed, mouth wagging in confusion.

Jane pulled her left hand from its rather carnal position and lifted it beside her head. She snapped, and sparks flew from her fingers. She saw A's eyes widen, her face expressive, but Jane's lack of social cues hindered her own understanding.

"Jane—"

Gunshots broke the spell.

"Stay down," Jane said, and moved to her feet.

"But—"

"I said stay down."

Jane limped toward the dock, hands wrapped around her howling midsection. Boards creaked underfoot, but the rickety sounds gave way to grunts and impacted blows. Kristoff was down, blood pooling at his right shoulder, caking blonde locks. There were only three guards in black now, but a curious, human-shaped mass was bobbing in the surrounding darkness just off the right side of the dock. Sven was holding the rest of the men off as best he could, but he was tiring. Even an untrained civilian like Jane could see it.

"Sven!" she shouted, distracting the entire group for the split-second she needed. "Duck!" She only hoped the brutish Norwegian was smart enough to listen to her.

Jane threw her hands out toward the side, unable to contain the anger and fear-fueled power. Without her gloves, there was nothing to act as filter or suppressant. The sadness and disgust of lucidity fueled her charging strike. Power shot from her chest in an arching wave, coming full-circle around her slim torso and pulsating outward, smacking each of the three remaining guards in the chest and rendering them unconscious instantly.

"J-J-Jane?"

Jane was on the wet boards of the docks, clutching her ribs, her adrenaline and energy so far depleted she was certain she might faint. A was on her in seconds, cradling her buzzing, _tingling_ form into a half-sitting, half-kneeling embrace.

"You stopped them, you know," A said.

"I probably killed them."

"I don't care. You saved some people today, too."

"A dozen rights cannot undo a wrong. And I don't know what you've seen of me, but you know that this isn't… _I'm _not right."

A loud gurgling redirected their attention and spurred Jane to give movement the old college try. Sven had Kristoff slung haphazardly over a shoulder, the blonde man's arm limp against the other man's back.

"Kristoff!" A said.

"'M fine," he said, through gritted teeth. Sven jumped down into a boat, knocking the man's head on the wooden ladder rungs leading down into their slip. "Ow…"

"Sven, be careful!"

"'S 'kay," Kristoff mumbled. "I've got a thick skull."

"What happened?" Jane asked.

"Buuuuuuuhhhhhhggggggrrrrrrrrrhhhhhhhhhsssssssssss."

"Thank you, Sven. Kristoff?" A asked.

"Clipped my right shoulder. Through-and-through, though. Hurts like _fuck_. How did you—?"

Sven pointed toward Jane. "Brrrrrrrrkkkkkkkkkkksssssssssssuuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhh."

"I think that about sums it up," Jane grunted.

"We have to get to a hospital on another island. Too many cops around," Kristoff said, blue lights descending upon the harbor. "C'mon A."

And in that moment, Jane made the most selfish decision of her life.

"She can come with me. It'll be faster, safer, us splitting up like this," she said.

"Where's your boat?" Kristoff asked dubiously, though his awareness was shoddy at best. Sven looked panicky, and A just stared at her.

_Please don't look at me like I'm a monster._

"I have a seaplane," Jane said, inclining her head to the end of the pier.

"Are you okay to dri— fly that thing?" A asked.

"I'm going to have to be."

"A, you want to go with her?" Kristoff asked.

"I…" A looked over at her, eyes brimming.

"You don't have to. I can take you to the nearest hospital. Or we can go stateside. Or you can leave with them. Your choice."

They all turned at the tramp of boots at the top of the pier.

Sven was starting the boat, Kristoff gone unconscious.

Jane wished she could join him in his state.

"I'm going with her," A said to Sven. The larger man nodded once, turned to his buddy, then motored off into the water, white waves capping in his wake.

"Are you sure?" Jane asked.

"My other ride is gone. Not to mention, you've probably got a few broken ribs."

"I've had worse," Jane said, tiptoeing across the exposed sponson and opening the door to the sleek ICON-A5 two seater. "Come quickly."

A danced across the white flotation device that kept the plane buoyant. She dove over the console and into one of the cockpit seats.

"Where are we going?" A asked, as Jane placed a trim, modern headset about her head.

"Somewhere that you can get some medical attention."

"No going back to the cabanas?" A asked.

"Hey! Stop right there!"

"Police, stop!"

"Come out with your hands in the air!"

"You really want to stay on this island after… everything?" Jane asked, starting the engine with a wave of her hand.

"I very much would not like that," A said, peeking out the window. "But I don't have any of my alias work with me, if I leave without going to the cabana. But honestly, I'm not hurt. I don't need to go to a hospital."

"You don't know that. You're not a doctor, and neither am I."

"You started my heart again."

"It never stopped. It needed jumping, like an engine, to rectify the irregularity in the contractions. Ventricular fibrillation is a common symptom of electric shock," Jane explained. "And I feel like I needed to know that, in case I ever, that is, if I ever did something like—"

"Jane, please. Let's just go."

"Alright.

* * *

After a stopover in Havannah and a transfer to Jane's jet, the pair decided to convalesce at a lake house in central Louisiana.

It was a boxy white antebellum mansion, outfitted with columns, second story balcony walk-out, and a wrap-around porch, complete with a screened-in partition and a dangling wooden porch swing. A nudged Jane's arm gently and inclined her head toward the home, a diffident smile rolling over her features as the pair left the taxi at the gate of the gravel drive.

Dawn was breaking over the eastern banks of Lake Sibley. Orange and purple tulip beds edging the porch protested the morning chill with their droops, joined by ferns and crabgrass and wild daffodils that hurdled down toward the lakeside. When Anna had mentioned that Natchitoches maintained a regional airport near one of her many properties, Jane had diverted her course and haggled with air traffic control for a landing. She piloted herself and A back stateside purely on adrenaline, but her ebbing energies and bruised body objected to every step she took over the rocky path.

They came unburdened, having left all of their materials back on St. John. A fiddled about with a ceramic frog in the tulip garden at the front of the house.

Jane rolled her eyes, a pick and tension wrench slipping from her shirt sleeve like a magician's Ace of Hearts. She made short work of the screen door and was already through to the grand foyer before A had emerged from a one-sided battle with the Hide-a-Key.

"You didn't even let me say, 'ta-da!'" A mumbled, following her.

"I need to lie down."

"Can you make it upstairs?"

"I shall endeavor to try."

"Après vous, mon ami," A said, extending a hand toward the banister. On the second floor landing, A doubled back toward the west-facing front of the house. "It's a lakeside view," she said, gesturing toward the curtains. "But I won't draw them just yet."

Jane looked at the brass four-poster before her. Plush pillows with lace patterns and a hand-stitched quilt covered the length of the mattress, home-spun charm and Southern hospitality just waiting to be exploited.

She flopped face first on the bed and was asleep in seconds.

Unconscious.

_Finally._

* * *

Jane awoke to the sound of rocks in a blender. It wasn't deafening, but the dull roar banged against her doorway like an attention-starved sibling, eager and persistent. She rolled over and winced, her torso screaming at her to _stay down._ Jane gingerly removed her clothing and shuffled to the en suite opposite the bed. She fumbled about for the light switch but, in her frustration at not locating it, sent a surge into the general vicinity of the room. The light above brightened. The chain dangling from the bulb was quaint, she supposed, as was the whirring ceiling fan it was attached to. There were no vents for central air in the old home, but the window to her right coupled with the spinning blades overhead suggested a dated efficiency and an inhabitant who didn't frequent the place enough to require a cooling window unit.

Jane turned the dual taps and scrubbed at her face, sand and blood funneled down the drain. In the midday light she could see savage welts and abrasions on her skin, and a decent shiner swelling her right eye shut. There was a knot on the back of her head and a dull throb in her skull.

_Sleep was better. The pain was subdued._

Jane opened the medicine cabinet and, hallelujah, aspirin. She swallowed three and chugged water from her cupped hands as she ran a bath. The claw-foot tub, not lacking in aesthetic appeal, was impractical for injury. It took ages to fill, and Jane's stiffness and bruised limbs made maneuvering over its high lip a significant challenge. When her full body sank under the water, her muscles didn't just scream. They wailed. Dunking her head underneath was torture, her black eye less than pleased with the heat of the bath. She knew better than to inflame her skin before icing her injuries, but she desperately wanted to be rid of every remnant of the St. John affair. Bruises and sunburns and superficial lacerations were not conducive to leisurely baths, but Jane forced her hand to scrub her body: sand from crevices and salt from skin and… saliva from lips. She licked them and felt a tiny split, the copper taste of blood hitting her tongue and waking her further.

Removed, toweled, and dry, Jane drained the water and combed out her tresses. She went back into the bedroom to search for clothing. The closet wasn't bare, but she hadn't the will or the energy to try multiple pieces to see which best fit her and which fabric she could bear against her raw skin. Ditching the closet, she reached back around the bathroom door and donned a white cotton robe with yellow flowers on it. Trekking barefoot down the (admittedly gorgeous) staircase, her ears picked up at the noise of more gravel thrown against blender blades.

Following the sound, she stood in a high doorway to a kitchen with twelve foot ceilings and elaborate crown molding, watching as A wrestled with a long plastic stick and a hunk of ice the size of a basketball. She hacked at the ice like a miner wielding a pick axe.

"Get… in… there—oh, Jane! You're up!" A jumped as the ice slipped against the plastic red funnel, the grinding sound growling louder as the bottom of the device spit finely shaved ice into a clear Tupperware container.

The scene was so pedestrian and domestic Jane nearly pinched herself.

"Snow cones?" A asked brightly.

"You have a snow cone maker?" Jane asked. It came out raspier than a jazz singer. Jane cleared her throat.

"I bought it! A good investment, I think."

"What flavors do you have?"

A's face fell. "Damn. Knew I forgot something."

Jane couldn't very well blame her. The paper bags littering the kitchen island and counters were overflowing with enough goods to supply a military detachment for weeks. Toiletries, groceries, clothing, first-aid supplies, DVDs— was that a fishing pole?

"Were you intent on buying out the nearest all-purpose store?"

"I didn't know how long we were going to be here," A responded. "Be prepared. I knew a guy in Kenya who said that all the time." She wrestled a bit longer with the ice chunk and the machine rivaled jack-hammer decibels. "YOU SHOULD JUST BE HAPPY THERE'S NOT A TARGET HERE. I WOULD HAVE BOUGHT MORE!"

Jane waited until A had finished the grinding procedure.

"And you thought we would need twelve cans of low-sodium soup, two whole roast joints, four gallons of ice cream—"

"Okay, so I might have gone a little overboard. You can stick that ice cream in the freezer… just there… But how am I supposed to know what you like to eat? For all I know, you eat, like, batteries or something."

Jane slammed the freezer door shut.

"What?! Batteries? That's absurd, of all the ridiculous—"

"Jane," A said, smirking from her position at the ice shaver. "I'm kidding. Please, have a seat."

Jane sat on an old metal swivel stool, fiddling with her hands. She'd left three pairs of her gloves back in the maintenance shed on the island. Not that they would be useful to anyone other than herself. But she felt better with them on, and her hand-rubbing only worsened when they were absent.

"Here," A directed. "Lean your head back."

Jane tilted her head and winced as a cold plastic baggie filled with shaved ice made contact with her swollen eye socket. A's other hand found the curve of her jaw line, the young girl rubbing her fingers over Jane's cheekbone absentmindedly, tracing an oozy scratch.

"Doesn't just make snow cones, that thing. And you need some Neosporin," A said. "You still refuse to go to the hospital?"

"I won't go if you won't."

"I told you, I feel fine."

"And I will be fine, after rest," Jane argued. "Hospitals and I… things don't always work."

"What do you mean?"

Jane debated telling Anna about the malfunctioning monitors, misread EKGs, the utter lack of technological application for measuring her body's vital signs. "I've had worse injuries," she said instead. "This feels like bruised ribs, a hairline fracture at most."

"Really?"

"I climb skyscrapers for a living, even angels fall."

"What about the rest of you?"

"I don't want to, but an ice bath would probably be good. For the muscle tension."

"I bought water-proof Band-Aids. They have rainbows on them."

"Thank you."

"Jane?"

"Yes?"

"I'm trying really hard to ask you about your injuries and not the fact that you can shoot electricity from your hands, but… it's proving more difficult than I imagined."

"I'm surprised you lasted this long."

"Really?" A's grin seeped outwards like liquid staining fabric. "Would you say you were… _shocked_?"

"Good Lord, here come the puns," Jane said, wrenching her head away from A's hands. She snatched the cold compress and shoved it back to her eye with more force than she intended, and only succeeded in hurting herself more. "How ever did you hold that one back?"

"I thought it up while I was at the store," A said happily. "But seriously, don't you think you owe me the tiniest bit of an explanation? I mean, you did electrocute me and—"

"I'm sorry," Jane murmured. "I didn't mean to, I swear. Sometimes, I can't control it, and everything goes haywire. I never meant to hurt you, and asking you to come with me… this was a bad idea. I don't even have my gloves!" Jane stood from the stool too quickly, bumping into the island counter. Pain blasted through her rib cage and she buckled over, holding her arms across her abdomen.

_What were you thinking, asking her to tag along? You nearly killed her once, you'll only do it again if you let yourself get closer…_

She opened her eyes and peered into A's concerned face. The girl was kneeling before her, pressing gently upwards on her shoulders, supporting her, aiding her, as if Jane hadn't stopped her heart only hours before.

_Just who is this person? Who helps the thing that wounds them?  
_

"Let's go in the living room," A said. "You can tell me as much or as little as you want. Then we'll eat something. Then we'll get you into a bath full of snow cone ice. Then I'll probably ask you more questions, but you don't have to answer them."

"Why are you doing this?"

_Why did you come after me?_

"You asked me that before."

"No," Jane said, sitting delicately on the cushions at the bay window seat. Gauzy white curtains floated in the open window, the crisp March air of a Louisiana afternoon the best that spring could afford. Coolness hit her split lip and it stung.

A faced her and Jane couldn't tell. Couldn't tell sincerity from guile from infatuation from subterfuge. She was in no state to think, or move, or try to negotiate her own actions, let alone another's. So whatever response A provided, Jane would simply have to accept for the time being.

"What makes me so different from everybody else?" Jane asked, eyes fixed on a flapping tulip petal. It seemed to be straining against the stem. "Aside from the obvious, that is."

"I believe, and please, do correct me if I'm wrong in this assumption," A said, affecting Jane's manner of speech. "That, given the right parameters and a bit of time, we could truly become friends. Not criminal comrades, but honest-to-goodness friends. And I would like nothing more than to hear your story."

The tulip petal resisted as long as it could, but the breeze had other ideas. The flash of orange darted along the gravel drive, unanchored and unhindered and free for the first time in forever.

Jane told A everything she knew.

* * *

_A/N: Am I forgiven?! Am I?! Can we stop with the death threats now? Please?! This was originally two shorter chapters, but I'm farther ahead in my writing schedule than anticipated so YOU guys get a bigger (hopefully better) chapter. I can never express my gratitude for all of the feedback this piece has gotten. So, yet again, followers, favors, reviewers, thank you._


	17. Part of the Story

_I don't own Frozen._

* * *

"So… you don't even know where you're from?" Anna asked.

"Retrograde amnesia of the severest form," Jane's shoulders sagged as her head fell back against the open window sill. "After I left St. Bridget's long term care in Little Rock, I went north. St. Louis first, then I landed in Chicago. I was there for… three years? Because of this—" Jane snapped again, light dancing off her fingertips like sparklers in July. "—I was able to evade the police. Not just one, but four, five, twelve steps ahead. And that's where I discovered my affinity for computers. I just had this… instinct with them. I could power them, and it made me want to know more about them. So I studied. And I… tweaked? Anything electric, anything with a computer, microchip, digital anything, I can manipulate. I'm somewhat of a coding prodigy, ahead of the technological field by a good twenty years, due to my condition."

"How did you figure it out? Aside from, like, lightning bolt throwing a la Zeus?"

"I infiltrated a substation at an energy company outside of Chicago. Power lines are filtered through substations that temper the voltage, and I sort of, connected myself to it."

Anna quirked a confused brow.

"Needless to say, I was unaffected by a shock that should have killed fifty grown men. It's where I got a bit of my daredevilry."

"But were you, like, born this way?" Anna asked.

"I don't know. If I was, I can't remember it. I just knew I couldn't let anyone find out. I'm not something to be poked and prodded."

Though she could have done with a bit of poking and prodding, looking as poorly as she did. Anna had hoped a bit of rest and the light of a new day would do Jane wonders, but it only served to emphasize the extent of the blonde's injuries. One eye was swollen shut, her perfect lower lip slashed, and a knot the size of a grapefruit protruded from the back of her skull. Anna had fashioned another ice pack from a baggie and an old rag, and propped Jane's head on it, unsure and unpracticed in abrasion treatment. It was certainly a change from the conwomanesque exploitation of every apparent weakness.

Anna redirected her gaze to the breezy front garden, the gravel drive leading back into town. She had felt too awake to rest when Jane did, circadian rhythms kicking in as the sun rose and the morning smiled. Anna had taken the nondescript sedan in the garage down the four-lane to the nearest Walmart and stocked up, food, first-aid, the works, a special trip to the five-dollar DVD bin to commence Jane's cinematic education. That is, if the woman wanted to stay.

_She invited me. She wants to stay with me, right? _

Well, she was going nowhere that morning if Anna had anything to say about it. Seeing her in that bright robe, light cotton and happy flowers… it was a graphic contrast to her marred exterior. Anna followed the _v_ of the robe down discreetly as she could, blue-black discolorations diving between Jane's breasts and likely blanketing her abdomen.

_Like snow cones will make up for that._

And, as she was wont to do, Anna questioned. She had to ask, had to know, just what made Jane so special. Anna could have slapped herself for not seeing it before: the skittish physicality, the inquisitive glances, the unconventional repartee. It was all testament to Jane's isolation, how an abandoned child would act if she had removed herself from the world for an age. And then, due to Anna's stubborn persistence, Jane had taken a step into that world, and look at what transpired:

_It beat her down because she was different._

Okay, technically, none of this was her fault. It was Hans's, or simply a lapse in everyone's personal judgment. Biting off more than they could chew was understatement; more like taking on a job none of them could swallow without choking, gagging, and then upchucking. But Anna couldn't help but feel like that obligatory reciprocity Jane had once mentioned was indeed the pachyderm in the room. There was a link too mysterious to vocalize between the two women, and Anna thought the subject best left for another time. Another time when Jane wasn't looking so broken and exhausted on her bay window cushion, staring out over the grounds with a wistful melancholy.

"I'm an orphan too, you know," Anna tried, returning to the conversation.

"I'm sorry. There are far too many of us."

Anna's shoulders jumped and slumped in reply. "I grew up here. Well, not _here_ here, but in New Orleans. Learned Creole French and everything, down near the railway station. Foster care for four years until my foster mom died."

"You're eighteen?"

"Almost nineteen," Anna said proudly.

"So… you were there for Katrina?"

"That's when I left," Anna said, thinking back to her childhood by the rail yard. "It was awful, and I was in the lower quarters at the time. When the water started climbing, I just ran. Threw myself on one of the cargo trains heading north and rode the storm out."

"Quite literally."

"Yes. I don't remember much, I was still so young. Seven, eight maybe? I left before it really hit, that first downpour had me spooked. I was never one for storms."

"You were too young."

"We're always too young," Anna said. "But I made an okay living on the trains. I was a good hobo and a better liar. I could cry on cue and beg for a mommy I never had when someone found me where I shouldn't be. Several crocodile tears and an ice cream cone later, I'd slip off into a crowd before anyone could call social services."

Jane waited for more.

"Ended up in San Antonio, picked up Spanish," Anna said. "I was quite the little Renaissance woman at that time. With a few languages under my belt and a motor mouth, I managed on the streets. I imagine it would have been harder if I had gone north. The winters aren't as forgiving.

"I stole my first painting in Texas," Anna said fondly. "I still have it. Now I know that it's the simplest, most unsophisticated landscape that I own. But something about the stillness drew me to it. How everything in a picture could be perfect when the real world was so… turbulent. Just a moment of forever, right there on canvas."

"That's nice. Is that why you like art so much?" Jane asked.

"Well…" Anna paused. She had never told anyone this. No one knew her, not really. Despite her babbling, her amiability, her constant presence in the social sphere, no one _knew _her.

_I'm just as isolated as she is._

"I only stole happy scenes, at first. The Romantics, lovers lying in wild flower fields, families at the hearth, duos dancing."

"Pictures where people were… with others?" Jane asked.

Anna nodded. "They weren't quite so… so lonely. I never had that. That… constancy. Forgive me, but I was _drawn _to them," Anna chuckled. "I talked to them, like an idiot. Because, what were they doing right that I wasn't, you know? Even the portraits, the singulars, they at least had a relationship with the artist. They were alone, but never _lonely. _There was someone out there who cared enough about their muse to immortalize them on a canvas, sign their name to them, _claim_ them. And then, because I'm a sympathetic at heart, I started looking for the lonely people. Though there are few in paintings, if you look really hard. Even subjects in anguish, are in anguish because of others. Theirs is a suffering at the hands of another, not of… abandonment. Implicit in completed works is an attentive act, by the viewer, by the artist. Take Vermeer, for instance. He does these great things with light, but on such mundane subjects. Like the woman at the window, just sitting by herself. But she's writing a letter, and that letter has to be _to_ someone… God, I'm rambling…"

"No, I… I get it. It's not just the paintings themselves, but what they represent."

"Yeah, company."

"More like the fact that you never had it," Jane said. Blunt, but not harsh. "You are empathetic, your nature is much too caring for all this. You—" Jane's eyes trailed her form, lingering briefly over her chest, where she had shocked the life back into her. "You feel things so acutely, so keenly. How aren't you broken yet?"

Anna's head thudded against the window frame and her eyes slid shut. The entire conversation, revelation, _interrogation_, was dredging up the last forty-eight hours of inconstant sleep. Too deep, too much, like water-logged lungs and rejolted hearts.

"You don't… have to answer that," Jane said, rolling her hands together over her tucked knees.

Anna took a deep breath and continued.

"And so an art thief was born. More trains, and a lot of time spent in museums. I even ventured into libraries."

Jane gave her a dubious look. Well, as dubious as one could give with a blackened eye.

"I can be quiet when I have to," Anna defended. "I'd sneak into movie theaters, because, well, it's dark. And cool. And Texas was hot. So hot! I was eleven when I made it to Los Angeles. I'd done… two stints in juvie at that point? Petty theft, and a release to another foster family that I'd leave after a day or two. Hans caught me stealing a rather nice watercolor from a local artist in a Pasadena gallery at twelve. Trained me for a year or so, then turned me loose on Europe at fourteen. I pulled a few jobs with him and his brothers in Hamburg and Düsseldorf, because they needed a girl. More trustworthy, or innocent, or some bullshit like that," Anna sighed. "I added German to the list, stole a few paintings, started hording cash like a dragon. After spending so much time with Hans and his family, I knew how to fake documents. Build aliases. Set up a few offshore accounts linked back to phantom emails and disposable cell phones. After several solo jobs, I bought my first place at fifteen. This place."

"It's beautiful, A."

"Thank you. Decorated it myself."

"But where are all of your paintings?"

"I have a warehouse in New York. The weather down here is awful for the canvases. Wet air, heat upwards of a hundred degrees come the thick of summer. The oppressive kind, that weighs down on your skin. Plus, I'm not here long enough to chase the moths away."

"Well, I still like it, despite the blank walls. Or maybe because of them. It's… peaceful."

"Not a bad place, that's for sure," Anna said. "Thought about naming it Belle Reve, but that's a little too on-the-nose, don't you think?"

"Belle Reve? Beautiful… what?"

"French, for 'beautiful dream'. From _Streetcar Named Desire_? No?"

"I'm afraid I don't know it."

Anna brightened at her admission. "I had a feeling you wouldn't. I know not to yell 'Stellaaaaaaa!' at you if you're perched on a balcony."

Anna bounced into the kitchen and knocked a bag to the floor in her haste. Double-checking to make sure there were no eggs or glass in the bag, Anna left it on the floor and rifled through the rest, hummling as she found just the sack she was looking for. She marched back into the living room and faced a quizzical Jane, who had not left her position at the window seat.

_God, even battered beyond recognition there's just something about her…_

"I've got a present for you!"

"What? For me?" Jane asked.

"As promised," Anna said, hand disappearing down into the bag and pulling out a plastic case. "One forty-fifth anniversary edition of _The Sound of Music_, complete with commentary from Julie Andrews and Christopher Plummer. Not that we have to watch the commentary, because we've got quite a pile to get through."

Anna upended the bag at the end of Jane's white feet, DVD cases spilling out and overflowing to the walnut floorboards below.

"I thought you might say 'no' to the hospital, but I know you need to rest and recoup for a while. And movies help pass the boredom… Let's see, they always have a copy of _Steel Magnolias _in Natchitoches, they filmed that one here. Then I picked up this combo pack of _Singin' in the Rain _and _The Wizard of Oz_ because, hello, classics! _Casablanca_'s on my Netflix queue, which is arguably the greatest movie ever made. Then, a complete one-eighty from the classics and movie musicals, I picked up all three season of _Game of Thrones_, 'cause I haven't gotten around to those y— what, what's wrong?"

Jane was crying. And not stoic, I-lost-your-seventy-five-million-and-I'm-mad-at-Hans crying, but ugly, snotty, forehead wrinkling _weeping_.

"The reviews for _Game of Thrones _weren't that bad," Anna said, flabbergasted. She moved to slide the mountain of DVDs back into the Walmart sack. "I'll take them back, we'll find something else to watch."

Anna was never one to watch someone suffer. That's why she tended to leave before things turned hairy. But this time, leaving was nonoptional.

She used her talents and read the woman's body position: Terse lips. Tight jaw. Crossed arms. Shiny eyes. Body language reveal: wounded animal. Frightened, apprehensive, on edge, and despairing because of it. So Anna did what came natural. She shifted on the window seat and gathered the blonde up in her arms, petting and shhing while she let her companion work out whatever it was that was zapping through her electric mind. The robe-clad woman clutched at Anna's t-shirt, sniffling and crying sloppy salt water onto her shoulder. Anna's abs tightened as Jane clutched the fabric over her stomach, hands shaking.

"Hey, c'mon," Anna whispered. "It's… whatever it is, I'm sure it's fine." She wanted to stroke her head, but feared aggravating the knot on the back of Jane's skull. Her hair was still cool from the ice compress, which had dropped from Jane's grasp and was now leaking. Staining a peach pillow burnt orange.

She let herself focus on the leaking plastic bag, unsure of how to respond to Jane.

_I never know how to respond to Jane._

While Anna watched drops condensate against clear plastic, the white curtains blew into her face. She was chilled, Jane's tears coupled with the scant breeze constricting and limiting a once free-flowing warmth. Like Jane was leeching it from her body, and the wind was helping. Like she was the only thing sustaining the crying woman in her arms.

Which got her thinking…

"Shit, you must be famished!" Anna said softly. Her fingers migrated snail-like over Jane's vertebrae, Anna still fearing any pressure would send her curling into the fetal position. "I had some breakfast earlier. If you call freezer-burned Eggos breakfast. But we've got plenty now. Whatever you want. Or we can order pizza, I've got like, ten thousand in petty cash around here, might as well use it—"

Jane mumbled something into her shirt.

"Didn't quite catch that."

Jane sniffled loudly and squeezed the eye closed that wasn't already swollen shut.

"You're supposed to hate me."

"What?!" Anna sputtered, eyebrows knit together like a tea cosy.

_Sweetheart, I am flirting the wrong way if you think I _hate_ you—_

"I nearly killed you, A."

"Yeah, so? You saved me, too. You didn't mean to."

"But I just told you… I'm dangerous."

"So am I."

"No, you're… you're not dangerous. Not really, you're… too good."

Anna snorted. "C'mon, you know better than that."

"No! Really, you're too good to be around me, A. You saw what I did to those men and you still… you came after me."

"Well, of course I did!"

"But why?"

_Oh fuck… why? Why? Even I don't know that! It's more than infatuation, this is too deliberate. I can't know enough about you, you're entrancing, enigmatic, electric… okay, maybe not that one._

"I don't really know myself. Other than I couldn't let you leave like that. I feel like I left someone once…" Anna's memories were hazy, a significance clouded by experience and time. No cloudy problem of the past could compare to the fragmented riddle in her arms. Her focus returned to Jane. "And _you _took a blow for me, if I recall correctly."

The rest of her body prickled goose bumps, but the skin on her chest began to burn. Sear. Scorch. Anna would investigate later.

"We're liabilities to each other. People like us shouldn't have friends. Shouldn't _be _friends. Look at what Hans did to you, and you've known him for years!" Jane's tear tracks turned her face shiny and blotchy. Bruises on her cheek bones. Slashes on her skin.

Imperfection had never been gorgeous to Anna before.

"Don't worry about that. We'll fix this thing… later," Anna rubbed Jane's shoulder.

_Together?_

"We have a house, food, and too much time on our hands. Now…" Anna's voice dropped as she pushed Jane off of her, wiping her tears gently with the pads of her thumbs. "I have a deeply personal question to ask you…"

Jane's good eye widened in anticipation.

"Do you like bell peppers on your pizza?"

Jane's sad shell cracked and she joined Anna's giggling, the former continuing her self-medicating as the latter darted about, unpacking groceries while dialing the nearest pizza place, pepperoni and extra bell peppers, please.

* * *

"Well, that makes all the sense in the world now!" Jane said.

Anna paused the DVD. If watching a movie made Anna feel nice, watching Jane watch a movie turned her giddy. Observing the introvert as the sweeping shots of the Alps and the nunnery and the Captain's mansion trotted across the screen was an exercise in restraint; Anna so desperately wanted to supplement the experience with insider information and behind-the-scenes tidbits. But she knew that would interrupt the overall narrative, and letting Jane form her own opinions of _The Sound of Music _uninfluenced by Anna was one of the hallmarks of cinema. It was like she was taking Jane's viewing virginity, not that that's weird.

Or creepy.

Or inappropriate in a movie about nuns.

"Do-re-mi-fa-so-la-ti. The basic scale," Anna smiled proudly.

"With nonsense syllables to replace lettered notes. What was the point of that exactly?"

"To teach the neglected children to sing! On a mountain!"

_Alright, scratch that. She obviously has zero taste in movies._

"We're not even halfway through with it yet," Anna said, redirecting her attention to the blonde. She was lying prone on the couch, towel draped over the cushions, and head turned toward the television while an ice baggie rested precariously on the back of her head. Several gallon bags of ice had been placed along the length of her spine by Anna ("No, I don't mind, just lay down, the movie's starting!") to treat the largest bruises. Anna held Jane's feet in her lap so she could police the ice bags and reset them should they slip out of place.

_At least that's what I told her._

There were only two substantial contusions on the front of Jane's torso, but one was the origin of her bruised/and/or/broken rib that the woman _refused_ to have checked out by a medical professional ("I can make you an alias, photoshop you an I.D." "No thanks, A. I'm fine." "Everyone is confused about their insurance now anyway if that's what you're worried about!" "I don't like hospitals." "Okay, Jane.").

_Ice Queen with electric powers and stubborn as a damn mule._

"Do you want to watch something else?" Anna asked, fearing the answer.

_This can make or break our potential relationship, I fuckin' swear, what will we sing to our future children if you don't like the goat song—_

"No, I like it. The songs are nice, and I'm sure the plot will pick up soon."

"Sure. You want anymore pizza?"

"The beating didn't kill me, but more pizza certainly will. I'm stuffed."

"I'd kill for something sweet… I think I want some—"

"Too bad we don't have any—"

"Chocolate," they said, synchronized.

Anna's eyes brightened and she leaned over the couch, her left cheek resting awkwardly on her knee as she peered down toward Jane.

_Alright, just avoid the fact that she finished your sentence and that her ankle is sort of in your cleavage—_

"You like chocolate?" Anna asked.

"I need to tell you something deeply personal," Jane said, mimicking Anna's tone from earlier. "I _love_ chocolate. There's this one shop, in Neuchâtel, I've singlehandedly dismantled an entire display before."

"Singlehandedly?" Anna teased.

"Well, singlemouth— singletongue— there's no good way to say that."

Anna was too busy picturing Jane's tongue wrapped around a wad of nouget to hear her question.

"So do you want some?"

"Um hmmmm…"

"Well, go get it. I'm incapacitated," Jane teased.

"Wait, what?" Anna said. "Oh, chocolate!"

"Yes…" Jane continued. "Chocolate. Are you well? You forgot yourself, for a moment."

_That happens when you start talking about your KISS length tongue dismantling things._

"I can pick some up from the store tomorrow," Anna said.

"Great! And can you spring for the imports? Domestic's good, but there's something about the Swiss…"

"They don't usually carry those is small town shopping centers. But there are several chocolatiers in New Orleans, one in Shreveport, too, if I remember correctly. We'll make a day trip out of it, when you're feeling up to it."

"I'd like that," Jane replied. "Can we finish the movie?"

"Yeah."

_**Fifteen minutes later**_

"How many canoes have you fallen out of attempting to recreate that scene?" Jane asked.

"For your information— two," Anna confessed.

After the movie concluded, Anna was thrilled to discover Jane approved. Goat song and all. They removed the ice bags, and Anna offered Jane an arm as the two lumbered up the stairs. It was only eight o'clock, but they were dog tired.

"A?"

"Hmm?"

"Did you say you were going to the store tomorrow?"

"Yeah, did you need something?" Anna asked, jumping excitedly at the prospect of actually helping. Any and all aid she had attempted to provide was met with shrugs and disavowals, cajoles and soft 'I got it's' that made her feel useless.

"Could you pick me up a needle and thread?" Jane requested.

"I have needle and thread. Do you plan on making some clothes out of the curtains?"

"No, I'm not quite that domestic. I just, well, it would be easier if I made you a list…"

She followed Jane into the room and fetched her pen and paper, doing her best to look skyward as Jane sat in some discombobulated version of Indian style, writing on her knee until Anna brought her a magazine to rest her paper on. As if the idea had never occurred to her. Her handwriting was a child's scrawl, imperfect and disproportionate.

"I type a lot…"

"Sure…" Anna joked. Though it occurred to her that Jane hadn't had any type of schooling. She was a genius, but the simple task of _writing_ never made life's curriculum, pen and paper discarded for screen and keys.

The list Jane handed over belonged to a serial killer. Anna was certain of it.

_Copper wire spool._

_Gloves. Size child's large or adult x-small. Preferably with grip._

_Pliers._

_Needle and thread. _

_Soldering iron (or welding device, if not easily accessible)._

_Tablet or laptop (I'll pay you back later). I need to find out where the nearest empty field is, and you don't have a computer here._

"What the— are you going to kill me in my sleep? 'Cause I can save you the trouble and let you know I usually have a night cap you can drug me with. And you can dump me in the lake instead of burying me in a field, for fuck's sake."

"What?! No, I'm making gloves," Jane protested.

"Then why am I _buying _gloves?"

"They help with the…" she rubbed her fingers together and nearly set the quilt on fire. "Shit shit shit!" She pounced on the singed fabric, yelping and clutching her torso as she moved.

"Hey! Quilts are replaceable. Chill out," Anna said, smothering the spark. "And take a handful more of these," Anna directed, a clacking bottle of aspirin thrown at Jane's lap. "I'll pick up your serial killer kit tomorrow, but right now, I'm going to go and pass out. Here's hoping I remember to brush my teeth."

"You better, your breath smells worse than Kristoff and Sven."

"They _are_ smelly aren't they? I thought it was just them being men."

"No excuse. They should shower."

Anna sniffed under her arm. "So should I. G'night Jane."

"Goodnight, A."

_See you in my dreams. Hopefully nude. With tongues and chocolates. And— Fuck. When did that wall move there?_

* * *

_Updates are fun because writing is fun and you guys are fun. Answered questions are fun, but mysteries are as well. Know what else is fun? Reviews. Just sayin'. Upwards of 200 follows right now, and I'm blown away like Dorothy. Thanks, guys._


	18. Cut Her Some Slack

_I don't own Frozen._

* * *

They were nearing the end of their third week in Natchitoches, and for Jane, it had been… enlightening. There was the initial discomfort, what with being somewhat mangled and bedridden. After day three of movies and couch-sitting (though the movies were endearing, she conceded), she needed to at least get out and walk down to the lakeside. A had the privilege of making errand runs, cleaning the house, replacing sheets and curtains and towels and manning the snow cone ice crusher whenever Jane requested more to fight her swelling. Even mothering Jane, A still found ways to keep herself occupied, a talent Jane couldn't seem to mimic no matter how hard she tried.

_Just a bit of fresh air._

So she had emerged from the house on day four, and walked the perimeter just to get the feel of the place. When she had her full range of motion back, she'd be able to hop that little gap from the balcony to the windowsill sans harness and climb on the roof. Maybe she could drag A up there, too, with a little prodding. Might be lovely for stargazing, an activity the ambient light in New York and Chicago limited.

Jane sometimes missed the country life. The swing on the screened-in porch was her favorite. She tapped on her tablet at dawn, sipped mint tea, and listened to the stillness of the morning. She watched the mist settle over the lake like a cool blanket. The sun rose higher in the sky and A would stumble out on the porch, grunt a good morning, and clutch a coffee mug like a lifeline. She didn't say anything. She just sat, and rocked with Jane.

Jane found trails along the lakeside and got lost in spurts of cypress and middling river birches. She climbed to reclaim the air above, missing her heights and the invincibility they provided. For with A, she felt anything but invincible.

Jane had been right in her assertion that A would become a liability. For in their vacation (_delusion more like it_), she was doubtlessly falling in care with the girl. And what's worse, A was requiting her. A was at her side if she stumbled, noting her preferences, fulfilling her requests. Almost preemptive in her caring. It startled Jane how attuned A was to her needs, how quickly she was unraveling what Jane had thought was a durable wall of detachment. She sensed when Jane needed her alone time, which was a blessing, for their personalities were disparate as water and oil. But just as Jane began to feel that once-constant loneliness descend upon her, A showed up, wanting to take her down to the square, or the lakeside, offering her a burned CD, or trying to teach her to fish.

("You fish?" Jane had asked.

"I do anything I have to do. I did once fish for a job and needed to exude an air of seasoned outdoorsmanship."

"No, but you _fish?!_")

In the meantime, Jane had been secretly searching for Hans. Any blip on the international radar of that douche bag extraordinaire, and it would register for her. Of course, she was operating with limited equipment. Olaf would be able to sift through many of the hits that wound up being useless and only bother Jane with leads that might yield results. Or at least hints to results. But Olaf was nestled comfortably in her saved files back in New York.

So far, no good, and Jane was tempted to call off the entire thing. A seemed unconcerned, and Jane held no loyalty to Sven or Kristoff. But the fact that Hans knew her coding troubled her. No one had yet been able to replicate her methods, and that meant she was faltering. She was ahead of the technological industry by a good fifteen years; it would take an entire team of hackers straight out of MIT to learn, copy, and perfect her techniques. But Hans? Pretty-boy grifter with a penchant for wine and power plays? She never expected him to be able to undermine and _then_ double back over a code she had spent years creating. But what was more troublesome was the message, buried under layers of code, which had caused her powers to spike in the first place.

_**Ice Queen my ass. I think I'll start calling you 'Sparky' from now on.**_

How did he know? What else did he know? How had he gotten her picture to give to A, so that she could make up that fake I.D. they used while shopping on St. John? Was there something more Jane could learn from him, about her past, about her _family_, about why this was happening to her? If only she could find him…

She had cried that night in Ursula's office for her lost identity, not her lost money. Her paradoxically stoic mourning stemmed from losing something she never really had. The disconnect from a person she might have been, if given all the information.

When her mind took to deeper thinking, Jane lost herself in the woods, in retraining her body to its peak. She stretched frequently, port de bras with a straight spine and then curving downward, nose between her knee as her ribs and back hollered _not yet! Not yet!_ But she persisted; it helped her think less.

A let her take the car out to go exploring on occasion, and Jane quickly located an abandoned field just outside the city limits for her electric expulsions. She performed her ritualistic lightening dance, bolts and zigzagging discharges detonating off of her skin like hydrogen bombs in the night. Stress relieved and not nearly as sore.

Her jury-rigged gloves kept a handle on the sparks during everyday activities, but she would be happy to get back to New York to retrieve a sleeker pair.

Jane had borrowed the car again today, but A didn't join her. The copper-headed girl wanted to take advantage of the lakeside to work on a tan only half-complete from her stint in the Caribbean.

("It's almost April, and summer will be here before you know it. You're beautiful with your ice cream cake skin, but I refuse to look like a puffy cloud on a beachside this year.")

Jane had blushed after that. Whether from the comment or imagining A in her swimsuit Jane did not care to examine. Jane inserted one of A's mixed CDs into the stereo and drove around for a few hours. It was almost like bungeeing, speeding down empty roads with the driver's window rolled down, sunglasses on, like a normal person her age might be doing. She located a sporting goods store with the tablet A had gifted her and waltzed right in, taking note of cameras and metal detectors. Two acne-faced boys in bright red vests leered as she walked by, but she didn't care to reprimand them. She found what she was looking for and plucked it from the shelf. She did not pay, nor was attention paid to her.

Jane had dismantled any security alarms with a wave of her gloved hands.

* * *

"Ohmygod, you're a closeted circus performer," A said, strolling leisurely through the cypress grove. She was tinged a faint pink and her freckles twinkled like stars against her sky of skin.

Jane nearly fell.

"What is that thing?" A asked.

"Slack line."

"What's a slack line?"

"What does it look like, dimwit?"

"It looks like you're training for the big top, asshole."

"Why would I train? I did a stint with Barnum and Bailey when I was twelve."

"Bullshit."

Jane lifted a goading eyebrow as she took another step forward, feet bare along a thin strap of nylon stretched taught between two trees. Suspended roughly two feet from the ground, she took tentative steps with loose knees and aware ankles, focusing on her equilibrium until A showed up in those cut-off denim overalls with her bathing suit underneath.

Balance and focus were unachievable after that. No way should she attempt her yoga poses. Jane bent her knees and the rope dipped down in response to her weight shift. Jane jumped from the line as it returned to its peak position, undulating and humming like a plucked guitar string.

"I'd make a dazzling circus performer. Don't you see how expressive I am?" Jane said, unsmiling.

"You're too much," A said, moving toward the tight-rope in miniature.

"You want to try?"

"Do I want to break an arm? No thanks."

"C'mon. You might like it."

"Oh, no you don't. I trip frequently on the ground, what makes you think I can traipse across this thing?"

"If you can manage stilettos you can manage a slack line."

"How do I know you're not looking for some blackmail for later on? You've probably got secret cameras stashed in the trees and plan on uploading a video of me eating dirt. It'll go viral. 'Ginger white girl busts ass.' I can feel the views accumulating as we speak."

"You won't know until you try it," Jane encouraged. "Like shopping. And, like you said, it'll help you with your balance."

"Jane, you know I don't-"

"I won't let you fall."

A eyed the line again, reaching out with apprehensive fingers. She ran her hands along the metal cinch near the trunk of the tree, pressed against the line with her upper body, and marveled at its give as she dipped down toward old cypress needles on the lakewood floor.

"If I fall, I hope I fall on top of you."

"That's the spirit!" Jane replied. "Now, come over to the trunk so you can prop yourself against it. Now face the line, and use your prominent foot to mount."

A ran around the tree, clinging to the bark as she caterpillar-crawled her way up the trunk.

"You might want to—"

"Just gimme a sec!" A said.

"But it could be easier if—"

"I'm just blocking you out, I gotta concentrate here…"

A squirmed about and somehow managed to plant the arches of her bare feet against the nylon.

"Like this?"

"Not even close, but I suppose that works as well," Jane returned.

_Oh, this is rather entertaining._

"This may be a novel concept, but you will have to let go of the tree to walk across the line," Jane said.

"No! You mean I can't take the tree with me?"

"No need to be snarky, just letting you know it'll snap in half if you hold it any tighter."

"Oh, I'm the snarky one? Isn't there like, I don't know, some chi or zen or trick to this whole thing?" A asked, teetering at the end of the line. Her hands were wrapped behind her, still clutching the tree.

"Yes, it's called _balance_."

"Jane—"

"Concentrate. Clear your head and think about your body. You know how it works, how it moves. You flail, but in heels you sway, in skirts you strut. Today is about engaging your core, learning how to control those limbs that tend to flap. Many people think you have to extend your arms for balance. You can, that's fine, but it's not necessary. Keep it tight, keep it compact, and, if all else fails… put your hand on my head to steady yourself."

"Uhm…"

"Don't worry A, I've got you. Move."

A slid a foot forward, then transferred her weight to it. Jane studied her feet, which were tan, but unfreckled. Bright red nail polish.

The girl had finally let go of the tree but was just standing there, bobbing on the line. Sometimes, being stationary was worse than going backwards.

"Your other foot, A, I'm right here."

A hurriedly brought her right foot forward and the rope swung wide right, eliciting a shriek from A as she lunged to her left side, her hand coming down on Jane's head in the process.

"I said you could use me as a prop, not try to plant me in the ground," Jane chided.

"And you told me you 'had' me."

"And I do! You've not fallen yet."

"'Yet' being the operative word," A mumbled, attempting to resituate herself onto the line more squarely.

Jane's hand came up to A's wrist to stabilize her as the line and her knees wobbled back into place.

"Don't let go," A pleaded.

"Not until you're ready. But don't spread your legs if you fall."

"Huh?"

"That thing will slap your crotch."

A tried another step and she tensed in Jane's hold but continued moving, recognizing that stalling on her last attempt had led to her inelegant bumble.

"Did you get to swim?" Jane asked her.

"No, just tanned a bit. It's not every lake in Louisiana, but you can never overlook possible alligators."

"Whatever would we do if they snapped off your ear?"

"I'd have to get a pretty fancy haircut."

Jane let go of her hand.

"Wait wait wait—"

"You got it!"

"I don't got it!"

"Keep moving!"

"You thought distracting me with talking was going to help, but this isn't something you can just— hey. Tree trunk," Anna grasped hold of the opposite tree, looking down at Jane with a wide-toothed grin.

"You're capable of more than you know," Jane said.

"You are, too."

A beat passed as Jane looked up at A. The blonde was flooded with an anxious desire to touch A's calf, count her freckles, for no reason other than study. To know her, what she was before this moment. What she will be after it. A pure yearning for something tactile, the grifter so liberal with her touches despite the shock, despite the knowledge of Jane's set-apartness. Jane rarely initiated, but there was something attractive about looking up to A. She felt grounded against her own jolting nature while A soared above, content with the arrangement.

An orchestra of crickets rubbed their legs together and sound exploded. A fish shot above the lake surface and flapped about, splashing loudly. Leaves fluttered. Squirrels chittered. The woodpecker hammered incessantly into the tree A was grabbing and her gaze faltered, as did her balance. Jane's arms shot out, A tumbling into the ungrudging embrace. A's face was so close and Jane was nervous and shaky and her stomach clenched. Gloved hands on denim and skin, it was all Jane could do to resist the tickle of A's bangs at her nostrils, ignore the fingers wrapped round her waist, overlook the slight discomfort of A's foot atop her own.

Their bodies were clumsily mushed together and something needed to _happen_.

"I— I've been thinking," Jane said.

"Yeah?" A whispered.

"I— I think… think we should go after Hans."

Jane couldn't help but feel she'd sidestepped something gargantuan. And she was beginning to regret her decision as A retracted from her hold.

"What?"

"Well, he screwed you out of your money," Jane began.

"I don't care about the money."

"Well you should at least care about what it does to your reputation. It will make you vulnerable."

A took another step back and crossed her arms. "I can take care of myself."

"I'm not saying you can't!"

_This isn't going as I hoped it would._

"Then what's this really about? It's not just the money," A challenged.

Jane had planned to do this later, when she had evidence, more than just a gut feeling to back it up. And more than the current feeling of failure fusing itself to her skeleton.

"I think he knows more about me than he's revealed," Jane said.

"Wait, he's revealed stuff?"

"Not overtly. But too many pieces fit. He's been able to contact me on numerous occasions, and I make myself difficult to find for a reason. He gave you my picture, to make that I.D., but I didn't give him my photo. He diverted my code to deposit the Seven Seas money into his own account, and I couldn't combat it. And he sent me a message…"

"Yeah! You mentioned that back… back at Ursula's office," A faltered.

They had glossed over that confrontation. Hadn't quite swept it under the rug, what with Jane's electric revelation, but the heightened emotions and misdirected anger were never addressed head-on. Jane preferred it that way; no need to prolong an unpleasant experience by talking it into submission, when simple acknowledgement would suffice. She longed to let it go, to put her behind in the— no, to put her past behind her. Jane hoped her repentance was evident in her actions over the past few days.

"What kind of message? Did he send it to you… recently?" A asked.

"Back in Ursula's office, when I was… when I was crying, trying to fix the transfers," Jane said. "That picture wasn't just a 'screw you' to all of us. It was for me. It said, 'Ice Queen my ass. I think I'll start calling you 'Sparky'."

"Well, if I was going to threaten you, I'd at least be a bit more poetic about it."

"A! Try to take this seriously."

"I am. But 'Sparky'? Come on. More like Sizzle Sister."

"No."

"Electra?"

"Hell no."

"How about I keep working on it?" A asked.

"How about we return to the topic at hand. I'm going after Hans."

"Woah, woah, woah, there, Joulsie. Hey! That can go both ways, for the sparks and the diamonds! See what I did there?"

"Yes. And then no."

"So you don't like going both ways? Or you do?" A asked, face unreadable.

"What? What are you on about? Can we return to your objection?"

A huffed, blowing her bangs from atop her forehead, hands perched on indignant hips.

"At first it's all, 'We're going after Hans!' And now it's just, 'I'm going after Hans.'"

"You seemed less than enthused when I first proposed the idea," Jane argued.

"You've got to warm me up to the plan first. Can't just proposition me and then expect me to fall right in. I like to be wooed a bit before I commit so fully."

"Really?" Jane asked, obviously skeptical. "This from the woman who did zero prep on our first job together?"

"Like you said, I'm a woman. I can be as fickle as I want," A teased.

"I suppose I should have expected no less from a _woman_ whose first major thefts were Romantic period scenes."

"So this is technically your fault," A smiled. "I'd like to think you know me better by now. When are we leaving?"

"I need to get some things first. We'll have to stop in New York. But what little activity I've seen from him has surfaced rather randomly over Europe."

"He's not easy to find," A offered.

"I am confident in my electronic tracking."

"You didn't seem so confident when he hacked your code. How do you know he's not done the same with your magic tracking devices?"

Jane had not considered that prospect. Hans had either astounding intelligence or astounding luck to compromise her code. Perhaps that's why her nets had managed nothing more than blips and rerouted IPs on all of her known electronic contacts with Hans. Maybe he was still screwing with her, letting her think she was more capable than she truly was. Lulling her into a false sense of security, as A had said.

"I see you've gone broody," A continued. "Either way, you'll need me."

"What do you mean? I'm competent at tracking without you. I've managed thus far, have I not?"

"So you're prepared to walk into a store or seedy underground pub and snoop about, asking for information and sticking your nose where it doesn't belong, all the while coming off charming and self-assured?"

Jane had wrestled the slack line down and was rolling it back up into its carrying bag. "There's no need to be rude about it. I'm sure you're coming along even if I forbade you from it."

"Oh, you're forbidding me now?"

"I'm saying there's not much I could do to stop you from getting your way."

"Damn straight. And, you still owe me a trip to a Swiss chocolate shop."

* * *

_So now they're going to Europe. *gulp* Looks like I might be writing this story until I'm 80._

_Not super happy with this chappie, but hey, I edited until my eyeballs bled. Always open to critique if you're willing to provide it. Again, extended thanks for follows, favs and reviews._


	19. Instantaneous

_I don't own Frozen._

* * *

_So, how sexy is it that Jane not only owns a jet, but can fly the thing?_

They touched down at an airstrip upstate just as the sun was setting, Jane nodding conspiratorially with a young man as the jet taxied into a large, unmarked hanger. The kid had ears the size of kites and a nose to rival Pinocchio on a dishonest day.

"Jet," he said.

"Hi Dennis, can you get the keys to the Jag? I see your brothers are here and I'd rather avoid them," Jane replied.

"Yeah, I got it. Who's this?"

"A friend."

"I didn't know you had friends."

"I didn't know you liked impertinent statements. Grab me the key or I'll take back the Cessna."

"I'm going, chill out."

The boy with a yellow trucker hat dashed into a nearby quonset hut, emerging moments later to jeers and crows from a slew of male voices.

"Get outta here, Dumbo!"

"Like you're ever gonna get in the air without passing those tests."

"Idiot."

Dumbo… Dennis ambled back to Jane and thrust a pair of keys into her hands. Anna would not have paired them as likely friends. But then again, most things Jane did Anna could not anticipate.

_Why start trying now?_

"Here."

"Thanks. Can you refuel and prep her for a trans-Atlantic?"

"Yeah," Dennis sighed.

"Have you reviewed those simulations I sent you?" Jane asked.

"Twice. I spin out once the system stalls every time."

"Review the third text book, page…" Jane shut her eyes, and Anna watched as her fingers fell, wiggling, like convulsing spider legs. "394. That should tell you what to do."

"Thanks, Jet."

"Yes. We'll return in… two days? Probably a late flight, so we can get acclimated to the time change. I'll text you details."

"Sure, sure. Catch you later."

Anna followed Jane to the hanger where they'd taken the jet, shocked to see three sports cars and one Suzuki slingshot lined and primed for driving.

"I thought you said you spent your money on technology!" Anna gasped. "Additionally… 'Jet'?"

"I never told him my name... and transportation is a form of technology," Jane grinned. "And, well, streaming speed is only one type of speed."

"Ohmygod get in, I want to go fast! I _like _fast."

"As you wish."

"Can I call you Westley now?"

"Only if I can call you Buttercup."

_Finally! She's gotten into the flirting. Wait, she is flirting, right? Or maybe that's the only name she can remember from that movie. WHY IS THIS SO CONFUSING SHE HAS A PORSCHE HOLY—_

"A, get in the car."

"Yes mam!"

They made excellent time. Jane had maneuvered over the interstate in the Jaguar with the same grace that she used when climbing buildings. She was rarely pulled over: speed radars never seemed to work as her Ferrari or motorcycle whizzed by, traffic cams turned snowy, and, what's worse, police cars simply stalled and their blue lights puttered out, leaving Jane to race away upwards of a hundred miles an hour. Anna couldn't wait to get her on the Autobahn.

_I wouldn't mind testing her speed in more intimate areas. Daredevilry indeed._

Once they infiltrated the city limits, she returned to the speed of a normal New York driver, which still meant a good ten miles over the set limit. She darted along the gridded Manhattan Island streets.

"What do you want for dinner?"

"I don't care," Jane remarked.

"You don't seem to have favorite anythings," Anna said.

"No. I'm rather bland that way."

"Easily pleased?"

"Easily disappointed."

How their conversations went from weightless to heavy, light to dark, teasing to accusing, Anna never knew. It happened more often than it should in a friendship, from what Anna had seen in the movies. And she had seen _a lot_ of movies.

She supposed they would get better with time.

Jane walked past an ATM and a handful of fifties gushed into her palm. Anna skipped along beside her, bundled against the lingering chill of a stubborn Northeastern winter. March in Louisiana and a break on St. John had spoiled her; her nose turned pink in the cold and sloshy, muddy puddles attacked her ankles. The pair dived into a Chinese place and shared fried cheese wantons and sweet and sour sauce, Jane sticking with sautéed vegetables while Anna gobbled up Moo Shu pork.

"Well, what does it say?" Jane asked her.

Anna's cookie had cracked before she opened the wrapping, a fissure running the length of the Pacman-shaped treat.

"_Enjoy the meal, buy one to go, too!_"

"I rarely eat Chinese, but even I know that is shameless self promotion," Jane quipped.

"What about yours?"

"Some drivel about punctuality being the 'politeness of kings'. The ancient dynasties would likely cringe to see their wisdoms so bastardized."

"Talk about me taking things personally. If you weren't so criminal, I'd accuse you of nobility."

"There can be honor in stealing," Jane said.

"Robin Hood!" Anna grinned. Then more seriously: "Or maybe mentoring someone? Dumbo— I mean, Dennis?"

"It's a quid pro quo, nothing more. He's young enough not to ask any questions. Wants to be a pilot, but his family leaves him to do ground maintenance. He takes care of my jet, I reward him with lessons."

"You're tutoring him," Anna smiled.

"I'm exchanging goods for a provided service."

"Don't sound so detached. You _like_ helping him."

"And you _like _pushing the issue. Can we be off now?"

"By all means…"

And by off, Jane meant into the night. Anna kept her mouth shut, though it was proving difficult, especially when Jane snuck them through the maintenance door to a skyscraper surpassing fifty floors at least. They were on an elevator and climbing, climbing, Anna impatiently tapping her foot as the car bypassed floor after floor of offices.

"Do you live in an office building?"

"Yes," Jane said.

"Why?"

"It was available?"

"Because homes are… unavailable?"

"Have you seen the available Manhattan real estate? Too many people want it, too detectable. And you live in a warehouse. Shut up."

"Not all the time!"

The elevator paused and Jane huffed, leaping two feet in the air and swinging the ceiling escape hatch open. Anna watched, dumbfounded, as Jane jack-knifed her lower body upwards like some lemur-squirrel hybrid. She was through the hatch and staring down at Anna before the red-head could fully rationalize the contortions of her body.

"Come."

"I can't get through there!"

"Sure you can, I'll help."

Jane extended a gloved hand, and wrenched Anna skywards with the upper body strength of an oil rig worker. Anna was sprawled on the roof of the stationary elevator car, suspended who knows how many floors above ground level, just waiting for the bottom to fall out from under her.

Jane removed the grate covering the air vent system, and placed it on a ledge to her left side.

"Follow me," Jane instructed, and began Army-crawling through the ducts.

_Follow me, she says. Climb through this hole in the ceiling, she says. Crawl on your stomach in this tiny, claustrophobic air vent while I— I take it all back. Her ass is worth it._

Anna's eyes were unabashedly glued to the blonde's rear, the tight (so tight) uhm… corridor they traversed snaking right and left, a maze of tunnels that Jane led her farther and farther into.

_I am crawling in her tunnel. FUCK._

The blonde paused over another grate, removing it with a deftness that suggested repetition. It clattered down into the room below. She disappeared through the hole like a bunny in a top hat.

"A? Come on down."

"Alright… I'm, working on it…"

She fell in a lump on the white floor of an open-concept apartment. White walls, white cabinets, white furniture, white trim, white… everything. The furniture was sparse. One couch, an uncomfortable IKEA do-it-yourselfer seat stationed at the end of a small table, a pristine kitchen, unused, from the looks of the immaculate finish.

"It's so homey," Anna said.

"I wasn't expecting company. I would have added a throw pillow."

"Ha," Anna deadpanned. "Oh…"

"Oh, what?"

"Now I get it," Anna said, turning toward the wall-length window to the right.

The garden of Manhattan stretched out and below, waiting to be plucked up like a flower, a bouquet of Avenues and Boulevards. Anna thought Jane could tend to them from this height; see their faults, weed-like potholes, thorny construction sites. Jane could manipulate, prepare, protect herself from burns and scratches with her ever-present gardening gloves. Anything from those streets, she could be ready for. She isolated herself to watch over the city. She also isolated herself to watch _out_ for the city. All that brick and light could crush a person, and Jane was uniquely fragile. Not delicate, as evinced by her beating. But _breakable_.

"So, there's a washroom through that door," Jane directed. "I may have, uhm, crackers? In the cabinets."

She disappeared into another room and returned moments later, harness attached to her midsection and black duffel slung over her shoulder. A thick coil of black rope looped over her arm and a beanie perched atop her head. Anna was just marveling at how much she looked like a penguin when—

"Well, you can have the bed. I'll see you in a few hours," Jane said.

"Wait, what? You're leaving?"

"I've got some things to do."

"Oh, sure. Places to go. People to see," Anna returned sarcastically.

"Places, yes. People, never."

"You're not being a very gracious hostess."

"Oh," Jane said, as if she were genuinely surprised. "I, uhm, hmm… There are just a few things I need before we fly to Europe, and, well, it's easier to burgle at night."

"I know that. I just didn't expect you to lock me in a tower."

"You can… leave, if you wish."

"I never said that," Anna rebutted, frustrated at the woman for putting words in her mouth. "I suppose I'll find some way to entertain myself."

"Oh!" Jane said, as if she had the perfect solution. "Olaf can keep you company. Olaf!"

Blue lasers bursts in diagonal lines and swirled into place like a whirlpool, droplets of light pouring down into something vaguely human-looking.

"Hi Jane!"

"Hello, Olaf."

"We made it home!"

"Temporarily, I'm afraid. Could you please keep A company while I go take care of some business?"

"Of course!"

"A can… uhm, _play_ on the computer."

Jane sneered at the phrase. It was as if she had said, 'A can behead the children'.

"But Jane!" Olaf attempted to drag Jane down to his level, and proceeded to thrust his transparent face into her ear, whispering hurriedly.

"I trust you to monitor her usage. Don't let her activate any nuclear devices, and I'm sure we'll all be fine," Jane said.

"Okay!"

Jane turned back to Anna, who had been reviewing the entire exchange with the effrontery of one slighted. She hadn't expected to just wait around while Jane got to do all the fun stuff. And how was she supposed to get out of this place without Jane's help? That serial killer list Jane had given her back in Natchitoches resurfaced from the bowels of her brain, and she cast a wary glance at Olaf. He looked every bit the endearing doofus, and couldn't actually _touch_ her, but that knowledge didn't calm her nerves entirely. However did those heroines in the movies do it? Locked away in secluded castles and towers for not just a few measly hours, but the better part of their lives? Jane may have been enamored with the 'Ice Queen' title, but Anna would leave the princessing to Kate Middleton.

Anna herself would be the most unlikely princess in existence.

"I'll be back before dawn," Jane said, tossing her bag back through the open vent. The rope followed, and Jane not far behind it, jogging across the open floor and somersaulting into a round-off, leaping back and gripping the vent edge with those nimble, super-strong fingers.

_She pulled her body weight up by her fingertips. Holy—_

Anna squeezed her legs together. The combination of arousal and trepidation leaving her… well, _physically affected_.

_Otherwise known as turned the fuck on._

"Be… safe," Anna said, equally as confused by the statement as Jane looked.

"Me? Safe?" Jane smiled down at her, and it was all the red head could do not to bolt to the bathroom to see if Jane kept a removable pulsating shower head.

"Never," Jane smirked.

_She WINKED at me!_

The grate was back in place and Anna locked in her white tower, impatiently awaiting her Queen's return.

"So, what would you like to do?" Olaf asked. "We can watch security tape from Russia, go over finances in the Eurozone, figure out what's going on down in Crimea! We can always tip off the DEA and border patrol about the next drug shipment coming through Tijuana—"

"While all of that sounds fascinating, Olaf, I uhm…"

_I have to go and masturbate because your creator is a sumptuous minx hellbent on melting me into a glob of overactive libido and lust. _

"I'm sort of tired. I'm going to go… take a shower."

"Okay."

Olaf followed Anna to the restroom, passing specter-like through the closed door. She had her shirt tugged up above her ribcage when she noticed the little digital man.

"Holy shit! Olaf!"

"Yes?"

"What are you doing in the bathroom?"

"Jane told me to keep you company."

"I'm sure she didn't mean _while I'm using the bathroom_."

Olaf looked at her skeptically. "Hmm, are you sure? She told me to make sure you didn't get into any trouble."

"What trouble could I get up to in the bathroom?!"

_Aside from the fun kind?_

"I don't know, but trouble can lurk around every corner," Olaf answered, raising a suspect digital brow.

"Pssh, who told you that?"

"Jane."

"Well, Jane is wrong."

"I don't think so. Jane thinks people are naturally bad."

"Well, I think people are good," Anna challenged. "Which is usually a fault. Call it an observation from someone who _actually _interacts with people."

"Jane interacts with people."

"No, she doesn't."

"She helps lots of people!"

"What are you talking about?"

"Here."

Olaf beebopped on his tablet for a bit, and pulled up a page-long list of addresses, in different countries, with different names. The only thing they had in common was—

"They're orphanages?" Anna asked.

"Yeah!"

"Did Jane have something to do with this?"

"Yeah!"

"Did she do it because she felt bad?"

"Yeah," this time, with less enthusiasm.

"Did she… build all of these?"

"Yeah."

"How did she pay for them?"

"The diamond market never fell victim to the recession. People will always buy shiny stuff. That's what Jane says," Olaf said triumphantly.

"You mean, she… she started— she started all of these? Is supporting all of these kids?"

"Yeah. She was going to break ground on another one in New Zealand, but she didn't want there to be any funds slipping through the cracks with the others. Sort of a quality over quantity thing. Thinks that if kids have to live in orphanages, then they need to be _good _orphanages. She was really excited about the job in St. John, was talking about sustainability projections, finally being able to go and visit—"

"She's never even been to the sites? Seen the... fruits of her labor?" Anna asked.

"She's afraid to. Says she'll hurt the kids... the people. But she's gotten a lot better, with the gloves. With the control. It's been about… four months now? Everything's seemed easier for her. She smiles, now," Olaf added, an afterthought.

Anna had met Jane about four months ago.

And this was it: in the movies, it was never an instant. Directors and producers have to drag it out over three acts, make it juicy for the viewers. They can film the exact moment, the exact expression, the misty tears at the lash line and the unattractive wrinkle at the corner of a lip crease. But they can't film a _feeling_: an indescribable warmth emanating from the gut, branching outward and heating the bones, endorphins geysering out of the brain and flooding the blood stream, tugging a body higher than even the most confining tower, the whitest skyscraper. When infatuation and lust transmute to something more palatable, more pure.

The exact instant when you fall in love is much like the instant that you are born. You don't exist, and then you do. But you could never remember not being born, not being this way.

It's an instant impervious to outside factors. Outside factors like environment, or company, or type of lover.

It could happen in a bathroom.

Accompanied by a digitized nonhuman.

And you could fall in love with the most terrifyingly terrified woman on the planet, and still be content.

* * *

Anna woke to the smell of bacon. She had fallen asleep on Jane's mattress, comfortable and plush, excepting the fact that it was missing a bed frame. But Jane was Jane, and furniture did not seem to be high on her list of priorities.

It was endearing, catching glimpses into Jane's personal preferences through almost stalkerish observation. But it was also disheartening, the fact that Jane's passions weren't as concrete.

_Easily pleased?_

_Easily disappointed._

It was like she was _expecting_ disappointment. And Anna couldn't completely blame her, now knowing what she did about her history. Jane as much as admitted she had killed people. Through accident or intent, nothing was certain. But knowing that a trait, a natural part of your makeup could fatally harm others? What if Anna's babbling induced strokes and cardiac arrest? You can't just _stop_ something that… is.

_Too early_.

Anna rolled over and caught another whiff of bacon, trudging bleary eyed and sleep woozy in her oversized t-shirt, kitchen bound. It looked as if dawn had cracked, but refused to break. Dull blue skies with black bars rising against them filled the windowed wall, and Jane stood sentinel over it.

Not stood… _bent_. Or… leaning? INVERTED LEANING?

Anna caught the first glimpse of the entirety of Jane's bare legs. Clad in black, stretchy booty shorts and a matching sports bra, Jane held the entirety of her weight on her forearms, bent ninety degrees at the elbow as those dazzling legs saluted the morning. Gloved fingers splayed wide on a mat, toes pointed toward the heavens, deep, easy breaths, a body of pliable ligaments and contracting muscles that could zap you to dust. Anna faced those kneecaps like an executioner.

There was no way a European mission could end well for her.

"Hi," Jane said from the floor.

Anna craned her neck sideways to smile at Jane.

"You're up early," Anna said.

"I never went to sleep. I always do this before bed."

_What? Tempt unsuspecting young con women virgins with your sensuously dexterous and woefully oblivious body?_

Anna yawned, unaccustomed to rising with the sun. "I smelled bacon."

"Oh no! I meant for that to go off much later."

"What are you talking about? 'Cause I'm gonna be very disappointed if you didn't bring me bacon."

"I fear you'll be disappointed, then. Would cronuts lift your spirits?" Jane asked.

"You're only forgiven because you're hot— the cronuts are still hot."

_Shit shit shit shit—_

"First batch," Jane said, indicating a paper bag on the bar. "The line's usually around the corner for those things."

"Well, they're basically funnel cakes for breakfast."

"What's a funnel cake?"

"A cronut, but not for breakfast. Like, from the carnivals?"

"I've never been to a carnival."

"We shall remedy that upon our return from Europe," Anna said.

"I would like that very much," Jane said softly.

When Anna reawoke in three hours time, she would recall this moment having more weight to it than she presently recognized. Even in her semiconscious state, all future plans involved Jane. How could they not? Anna loved her.

"But let me see if I can reset it." Jane skipped into the bedroom while Anna wolfed down a cronut, groaning as hot dough and strawberry filling slithered down her esophagus. Powdered sugar peppered her upper lip and she inhaled, nothing better than morning pastry. Except maybe a mid-morning pastry. She wanted to go back to sleep.

"You've got some white on your upper lip," Jane noted, returning to the kitchen.

"I don't like cocaine, I just like the way it smells."

"Excuse me?"

"Too early for jokes," Anna said, laying her arm on the bar, her head dramatically following suit.

"Here, try the bacon again."

Bacon scents teased Anna's nostrils.

"What is that?" Anna asked.

"It's yours," Jane said, handing her the latest iPhone. It had a small, cube-like device inserted into the earphone portal.

"You got me a phone that smells like bacon?"

"That's absurd. I got you a phone that sprays bacon scent."

"Which is less absurd… how?"

"You're awake at five thirty in the morning. When was the last time a conventional alarm woke you at this hour?"

"You… are entirely correct."

_She got me a phone. A scent-spraying phone that smells like bacon._

"It comes in other scents, too. You like coffee, so I picked that one up. And cinnamon…" she trailed off, blank face and voice undeterminable. "It's a new app, and I thought you'd find it amusing."

"Did you get mint?"

"Oh, no, I don't think they had that one."

"Mint," Anna said. "I love that smell." _I love your smell._

In all honesty, it was one of the most practical gifts Anna had ever received. So many trinkets from marks or acquaintances were ornamental, if only because, again, no one really knew her. After a few weeks, Jane had correctly deduced that the only way to drag Anna out of bed was through food. And the idea that Jane had paid enough attention, that someone had finally _noticed_ her… Anna, not A. It was a little overwhelming.

Early morning yoga sessions and late night drunken confessions on cabana porch swings. Places and times when slices of love happen.

"These are wonderful," Anna said, indicating the cronuts. "And this is perfect, thank you," she said, shaking the phone in her hand.

"I'm— I'm pleased that you like it."

They smiled, and then yawned simultaneously.

"I need to go to bed," Jane mumbled.

"And I need a few more hours," Anna said, trudging back toward the bed room. Jane followed and leaned against the door jamb, arms over her abdomen.

"Go on then, I'll take the couch."

"That's silly, it'll be bright as day in there in another thirty minutes. I know your body clock's already off enough as it is."

_I want to know everything about your body._

"I'm told to be a gracious host, I don't take that job lightly," Jane cajoled.

"This is ridiculous. We're both adults. Push me to whichever side you don't use. I'm going to wake up and go get coffee in like, three more hours any way. If I can get through that damned ceiling."

Jane regarded the mattress reproachfully.

"I'm not sure that's wise…"

"You don't spark in your sleep, do you?" Anna said, lifting the corner of the blanket on the right side of the mattress. She burrowed underneath and her eyes were closed in seconds, head nestled into the crook of her lolling arm.

"No, I don't."

"Then stop making such a big deal about it. I'm not going to like, violate you, but a cuddle's not out of the question. Just a warning, I'm a sprawler. Come on."

Anna felt the mattress dip at her side.

"Aren't you gonna—" yawn, "—change into PJs or somthin'?" she slurred.

"I sleep nude, but I don't think that's entirely appropriate."

"I wouldn't have minded," Anna said, succumbing to sleep's pull.

"Oh really?" Jane said, amused.

"Naaah, you're hooo—snoooaaagggghhh."

An incredibly amused Jane watched over a snoring Anna, and soon the former drifted to sleep, with only the smell of bacon and cronuts floating between them.

* * *

_A/N: We made cronuts the other day at work, and I saw the scent dispenser app on the news the other night. You are thus given this chapter. Thanks to all, and review if you feel so inclined._


	20. To Europe

_I don't own Frozen._

* * *

They were four hours over the Atlantic before A even asked where they were going. Jane couldn't determine whether it was merely her carefree nature, or some odd indication that A had entrusted her well-being to the blonde. It also didn't help that Jane was still harboring foreign emotions. Being cared for in Louisiana was one thing; she could chock that up to a deluded sense of dependency while she was injured. It was only right for Jane to feel indebted to the girl, for all she had done for her.

But Jane felt the need to make it up to A. Again, with the reciprocity. So she had agonized over an appropriate exchange, something A could use, would like, something that maybe reminded her of Jane when she used it.

And then it hit her, in the dark of night as she lifted the phone from the abandoned stock room of an Apple store. Because somewhere she had heard that smell was the strongest memory-jogging sense. And maybe Jane wanted to be remembered. Specifically, by A.

There is significance in memories.

She was getting A a gift. It was the first present she had ever bestowed on anyone, and God, how she hoped A would like it. A's reaction was paramount; Jane felt if she failed in this endeavor then she would fail in all future ones. Jane even put thought into _how_ the gift would be given. Alongside sweet pastries, in the stillness of the morning. Like rocking with A on that porch swing. Nothing said. Just _existing_ together. And then a scent. A breath.

A moment.

And A's reaction, though subdued through the dregs of sleep, had been sincere. Heartfelt. Genuine in its purest sense, because she had scoffed, then smiled; the good, crooked kind, that reached her eyes and crinkled her flared nostrils just slightly. And then they had shared a bed together, and it warmed parts of Jane's chest that had never known heat. It also stirred parts of Jane's body, directly south, that she never thought would be stirred by another woman. A had warned her of an inevitable sprawl, but when a rogue hand flopped across Jane's bellybutton and short fingers curled into her side… best not think about that while she was piloting a jet.

She was content (_for now!_ her mind screamed) with A's friendship, yet astonished that it even occurred. Too many pieces needed to fit into place for it to work, this arrangement they had. She let kismet rule, and refused to question why the blessing was bestowed upon her.

Jane very much wished to enjoy it while it lasted.

"Got a text from Sven. He and Kristoff are in Oslo, taking a break."

"Well, we took one as well, I can hardly fault them for doing the same," Jane responded. "Kristoff's arm?"

"Fine. But he's whining to Sven like a six-foot baby. Their extended family is huge, so he's in good hands. Rough, but good."

"Good. I'm glad he's not in pain."

"So… Amsterdam, then?" A asked. There was a solemnity to her tone that Jane didn't appreciate. An unfortunate weight that flattened her words and crushed her tone.

"That's where my readings have been strongest," Jane said. "He's logged onto his accounts from IP addresses that have registered in a series of Internet cafes in the city. Moving some of his funds around, really spreading them thin. He doesn't like to have more than ten million in each account. Do you know why that is?"

"I have no clue. He was in Amsterdam earlier this year, though. It's a bit of a home-away-from-home for Hans."

"How do you mean?"

"I worked one of my first big jobs with him in Amsterdam," A explained. "It was… illuminating."

"But not bright. You make it sound seedy and underhanded."

"It was, the whole affair. Quite— indescribable, I'm afraid. I'm glad he cut me loose not long after."

Jane continued piloting the jet, waiting for A to speak. It unnerved her when A offered no further information.

"I've never heard you speechless before," Jane commented.

"I was hoping not to come back here," A confessed. "Not that anything terrible happened to me, just…" she sighed. "I saw too much too young."

Jane checked her with a glance.

"In the red-light district."

"Ah."

"It was an experience," A continued. "I have more connections than I care to admit to in that part of the city, but I should warn you, I'm known as something of a courtesan there."

Jets are remarkably quiet when the conversation turns uncomfortable.

"I don't… that is, I wouldn't think any less of you," Jane began. "You were very young, when you started working, and I've never really considered the power a benefit, but now, I, well… I'm sorry. I can't seem to articulate anything very clearly. But there's nothing to be ashamed of, I'm sure I've—"

"I don't want you getting the wrong idea," A interrupted, perhaps a shade lighter. "My sins were primarily those of omission. I stood back and let bad things happened, enabled vices for a hefty profit. I did a few things, but I never, that is… I haven't… uhm…"

Jane turned sideways, inspecting the girl at her right. One leg swung over the armrest of the co-pilot seat, she gnawed her lower lip like a cow's cud. A was deep in thought, though broody pondering Jane considered her own specialty. She wondered what had fazed A to the point of silence.

"I'm still a virgin."

_What?_

"I'm sorry? What was that?" Jane asked. Had there been oncoming traffic, she might well have veered into it. But nothing save sky the color of graphite met her, night tunneling into darker night while Jane died a little inside.

"You heard me. I've had to… well, _perform_ for other people, especially in Amsterdam. I know a guy, so well connected it's scary. Judge Frollo. Not to be crass, but he's got his fingers in every pot out there, his ears at every door. Proprietor of a few clubs, John to hordes of girls. And probably guys, too. I've done a few jobs for him, overlooked a few shipments—"

"And by shipments you mean…"

"Girls, yes. People for…" A trailed off sadly. "Some who were younger than I was."

"When did you first meet him?" Jane was afraid to ask.

"I think I had just turned fourteen."

"Fuck, A."

"I know. It's awful. But once you're in there, you cannot, and I mean CANNOT break cover. Because if they knew you were an orphan, if they knew I was a nobody, they'd put me in so deep I'd never be able to claw my way back to the surface. It's legal there, and they're trying to make it better, but…"

A let her sentences linger in the present, though her mind was obviously in the past. Memories deplorable and regrettable cut deeper than the cheerful times, and despite her positivity, A was not impervious.

"I don't mean to pry, if it's uncomfortable for you—" Jane began, but she had to know.

_How could such a brightness survive somewhere that made a habit of extinguishing the light? How could she remain untainted?_

"— but how did you get around, well—"

"Sex?" A asked. "I was always working with other people, which helped. Some of Hans' brothers. Hans himself on a few jobs. And once I caught Frollo's eye, I was… let's say promoted. There are tiers of courtesans and call girls, levels of prostitution there. Some are for the lowest of the low. Others have fetishes. And, uhm, well… natural red-heads aren't common," A whispered the last bit. "But most of what I did was performance, like any other grift. A bit of show, a well-placed accent. And if I ever felt truly unsafe, I resorted to drugging my client. You wouldn't know it, but I'm a rather adept chemist."

_How is it that she can withstand such treatment? Place herself in such danger with nothing more than a pill as protection? Just how foolhardy is this woman?_

_Weren't the brave of history considered the foolhardy of their present?_

"But you never—"

"No," A said. "Not that there weren't close calls. Or even normal calls, with nice people. Chances with, with good people, I mean. I just never found someone that seemed… right."

Jane couldn't speak any more. She felt too guilty. For thinking poorly of A, forcing her into a category to which she never belonged. Jane had essentially called her a whore that night in Hans' cabana on the island.

_Has it really only been a month since St. John? And now we're flying to the sex capital of Europe together?  
_

A had escaped an industry where others suffered, and yet when the other girl was safe (_with good people_, _with nice people_), she still never succumbed to… what? Her base needs, just to feel a connection with someone else? A said it never felt right. How did it ever feel right?

Jane wasn't even sure what 'right' was. She had never been sure, would probably never be sure, and it grieved her.

"I was a dancer," A finally said, quashing Jane's dangerous imaginative musings. "Exotic, yes. I did… strip. At first I thought, it could be a little glamorous, a little titillating, but after each performance, I felt so… dirty. Humiliated. Subjugated. Not just by the audiences. But by the people I worked with. I mean, _they_ couldn't very well get up there and prance around like I did, but it was necessary for the con. To get close to our marks, who were usually in the audience. I've been in a room with countless politicians, hands down their pants, so that my partner could get what's called the 'money shot'. The picture we'll take back to their wives and their presses unless the mark pays the blackmail money. Those were some of our simpler cons.

"But with the constant presence of organized crime, our jobs got bigger. Drugs, weapons, stuff I wasn't interested in, didn't want to be a part of. I like _art_, for fuck's sake. That's why I got out of Amsterdam. Pity, too, because the Netherlands had a real Golden Age of painting during the 17th century. I mean, Rembrandt! I could've worked wonders with some of those pieces."

"Do you think this— Frollo person can get us to Hans?" Jane asked. "He never frequents the same establishment twice, according to my readings."

"He can get us there," A said, again, not brightly.

"But…?"

"But not without us giving him something for it."

"How do you mean?"

"Information is a commodity. And so we have to be willing to pay."

"I expect he doesn't do dealings in paper currency," Jane said, fearing where the conversation was going.

"Correct. I just don't know if I still have it in me."

"Have what in you?"

"The guts to perform again," A sighed.

"He surely wouldn't make you—"

"The perversions of man in the red-light district would send jolts even up your spine, Jane," A grinned sadly.

"Well, we won't let it come to that," Jane spoke with authority. It was the least she could do. Fake confidence, even if she knew better.

"Perhaps. I mean, I'd still do it. It's only one time, and I feel safer than I've ever been with you there. Not that I consider you a weapon, or anything!" A rushed, attempting to backtrack. "I mean, well, maybe I do. Is that insensitive of me? It is, I know it is, it's just you've never been there, Jane, and there's just so much sadness in those dank little rooms, and it's suffocating and you don't even know if you'll see the sun again. I wouldn't only take you along as protection, I shouldn't even take you along at all! I'd never try to _use_ you. God, that's what those men did to me, I would never want to imply that you're just a tool—"

"I understand, A. Really. Even with my power, I can't say that I would have been brave enough to go there."

_I can't say that I've been brave enough for anything_. _To accept. To reject. I just let things happen, hoping they'll mean something. Or I walk away. Omission, as you said… or apathy. Apathy is the worst sin. _

"Well, good. I didn't mean to insult you," A told her.

"You didn't. You made me feel… needed."

"Oh. Well, not my intention, but this time, yes. Yes, I do need you, if we're to get out of this relatively unscathed with the information we want."

"You're right. We'll be… we'll be fine."

Jane only wished she believed what she said.

Because knowing that A had been a stripper, knowing she moved and slid and swayed and gyrated while men double, triple her age jacked off in chairs or booths or… it almost made Jane cry. But knowing A had saved herself; had somehow managed to swim despite the sharks, breathe despite the overwhelming tide, it made her feel guilty.

Because A didn't have a power, and she had waited.

Jane did have a power, and she hadn't.

What was odder? A red-light district conwoman who was still a virgin, or a computer hacker hermit with electric powers who wasn't?

* * *

_Shorter chapter, but we're gearing up for some more action. Reviews and critique appreciated. All my gratitude goes out to the readers of this piece. You guys are the real heroes :D_


	21. Red Light, Green Light

_I don't own Frozen. M rating for sexual references.  
_

* * *

They landed at an airstrip by the English Channel on the northeast side of The Hague. A spouted a few Dutch words to the woman behind the counter of a rental car company, and the two were off on the A4 that led directly into the Amsterdam city centre. They played one of A's mixed CDs in the car, the poppy tunes at significant odds with the severe tone of their expedition. A sang along. Jane listened, and joined in when she could on the choruses. Appropriately, "Proud Mary" erupted through the speakers as they crossed the first water channel. Canals off the Amstel River branched into the city like aggressive capillaries, breaking apart the flat terrain with water obstacles and boats of varying sizes and utilities. The waterways seemed to spiral outward, the shape like an open eye on the earth's surface, glaring toward space, perpetually brimming with tears.

A navigated as Jane drove, and when they pulled in front of a six story brick behemoth of a hotel, Jane almost shrank back from the building. The Amstel Amsterdam Intercontinental Heritage Hotel faced the square on one side, the river on the other. A stepped out of the car with a poise that meant she was in character, back straight as a rod and smirk practiced as Jane's own yoga positions. There was no instruction, other than a nod of her head to Jane, directing her to hand the keys over to a valet.

_Of course a place like this would have a garage. It's palatial._

A sauntered straight up to the concierge desk and began babbling intently with the man behind the desk in rapid, high Dutch. The man was obviously charmed. Jane, however, was awed by the checkered marble flooring, the tinkling golden chandelier, the greenery of the plush Persian rug racing up the grand staircase, the egg-and-dart moldings at the tops of the sea-foam columns, the natural light pouring in from the open second story walkway, A's beautiful, expressive smile—

She had been twisting her gloved hands during her review of the interior, the grandest building she had ever set foot in without the intention of burgling it. Jane might just have to take something for the sake of it. A trinket to remember the adventure.

_Depends if this is an adventure worth remembering._

"Come along, Jane. You're drooling," A said, beckoning her with an outstretched hand toward the staircase. It felt almost habitual when Jane slipped her hand into A's, as if they had performed the exercise countless times before. Yet the action of A dragging a stupefied Jane higher into the hotel was striking; striking in its novelty, in its unfamiliarity, but likewise in its thrilling comfort. It seemed the most natural course of action, and Jane reveled in it. To have something so natural make her so happy nearly made up for her... unnaturalness.

Her hand was tingling in A's grip and it had nothing to do with electricity.

"Ta-da!" A said, pushing open a pair of double doors that brushed a fourteen-foot ceiling. She squealed and skipped inside, pulling Jane along like a weightless balloon.

_For someone who didn't climb buildings, she was strong._

"Off, off, off, off!" A yelled.

"What?"

"Take them off!"

A stripped herself of her jacket, bent over in front of Jane, and began to untie her shoes.

"Come on, hurry up!"

"There seems to be a misunderstanding happening here," Jane said, tentatively reaching for the hem of her shirt. "Do you mean—"

"Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" A shrieked, arms extended and slip-sliding over the marble on sock-footed feet.

_Not quite where I thought she was going, but sure. Why not?_

Jane removed her sneakers and bent at the knees, prepping for a running start.

"C'mon, I'll catch you!" A said, arms outstretched at the other end of the room.

"Not if I knock your skull open on the floor first."

"You're thin as a reed. I'd like to see you knock anything over with that svelte little frame of yours."

"Oh, svelte? Have you looked at yourself? You'd blow away if I wasn't here to keep you earthbound," Jane smiled at the retort.

"Then looks like I can't get rid of you," A challenged, making a 'bring it on' motion with her hands. "I just don't think you got what it takes."

"A dare?"

"Positively."

"Then I accept. Prepare yourself."

"Ready when you are, sister!"

Jane started running, tripping as her foot slid out behind her. She recovered elegantly, but didn't jump into a slide until she was but a few feet from A. And as predicted, she smacked into her with all the grace of a bull in a china shop. But A held fast, giggling as they spun and attempted to regain their balance on the butter-yellow floor, socks slipping and elbows nudging and laughs bubbling.

Jane kept chuckling too, tugging onto A's braid in another one of those foreign-yet-familiar gestures that kept happening between the pair. When they righted themselves, they didn't release each other. Again, it seemed… natural.

"And why did you spring for a room as stately as this?"

"It's the Royal Suite," A said, throwing an arm out in a grand gesture. "Fit for an Ice Queen."

"And silly me, I left my tiara in New York."

A's jaw dropped. "Was that… humor I just heard?"

"Me? No, you must be mistaken."

"God, you're adorable. Droll and dry, but adorable."

"It's been rubbing off on me. I can't seem to stop it," Jane quipped, squeezing A's elbow affectionately.

"How 'bout we raid the minibar? Little celebratory bubbly for successfully crossing the ocean!"

"No, thank you," Jane said. "I'm quite happy, right here."

_Did I just pull her closer?_

"I love this. I wish it could be like this all the time," A said, softening into the loose hold.

"Me, too," Jane said. "Maybe… it can? I mean, I never thought about taking on a partner or anything, but—"

"We wouldn't necessarily have to stop working together after we figure out what Hans is up to."

"And if we get our money back, we can do what we planned. Just retire out of this."

"You really want to retire from this?" A asked, head twirling around to soak up the ambiance of the ritzy suite. A took in the room, but Jane stared at A. Rooms and humans were incomparable. Especially a human like A.

"We'll take plenty of vacations," Jane said.

"And have lots of adventures," A agreed.

"And watch numerous movies."

"And eat pounds of chocolate!"

"And—"

"And—"

_Ring ring!_

The phone broke their idyllic spell. A screwed her face up and released Jane, holding a finger up in a 'one-moment' gesture that indicated the conversation had not stopped, merely paused.

"It's probably just the front desk, want to see about a wake-up call or something…" A said, picking up the receiver. "Hallo?"

There was chatter on the other end of the line, and A's face fell. "Meneer Frollo, ik wilde je bellen—"

Jane caught one word: Frollo. They had been in the city less than an hour and he already knew they were there? And where they were staying, as well as the room number?

_Unnerving at least, with the potential to be horrifying, depending on how this conversation goes. Perhaps he is too well-connected.  
_

Jane walked to the window while A spoke on the phone, the canal below them drifting lazily by. It was odd, knowing that only a few miles away women stood in doors and windows, backlit in red, trading their bodies for money. In the brightness of the Amsterdam spring, with house boats and grand suites and an enchanting roommate, the red light district seemed leagues away.

_I wish it could be like this all the time… but it can't. Too many bad things in a bad world._

She heard A approach from behind but didn't turn toward her. There was the sound of a body hitting fabric, and Jane assumed A had fallen onto the floral patterned settee in the living area.

"The verdict?"

"Guilty," A responded.

"Of what charges?"

"Entering the city limits without alerting him to my presence, walking out on an unpaid tab from three fuckin' years ago, attempting to locate Hans—"

"Why is the last one a crime?" Jane asked.

"He gave me the impression that there was an alliance forged," A explained. "But that he was willing to pull a double cross if I came in to negotiate."

"What do you think he wants?"

"Oh, I know what he wants," A said, sighing into a pillow.

The mood from earlier had plummeted, replaced with a leaden feeling that nestled somewhere in the hollows of Jane's chest cavity, burrowed its way into her aortas and ventricles. Constricted them. Squeezed. A heart hurting hard.

"He wants a special performance, for some of his higher-end clientele," A said.

"And he just expects you to come and—"

"Something like that. He thinks I've been in Japan, working as a Madame of sorts."

"You're only eighteen!"

"Almost nineteen. Which is plenty old enough to oversee other girls. And he doesn't know that."

"Hans didn't blow your cover?"

"I suppose not. My guess is he's not been in actual contact with Frollo. Just sending messages, letting him know he's been in Amsterdam."

"Aside from his nostalgia for the city, what else brought Hans to Amsterdam?" Jane asked.

_The million dollar question._

"Aside from the easy lays? That's what we've got to go and find out. As I said, I think he and Frollo might be brokering some sort of deal. But Frollo's never been one to stick to his word."

"So how do you know he'll make good on what he promises you?"

"It's a lot harder to deny a scantily clad woman standing in front of you than a douche bag who sends obnoxious, threatening e-mails."

"I was once a douche bag who sent obnoxious, threatening emails," Jane said.

"But at least you did it with style," A tried a smile, but it didn't reach her eyes. Her nostrils didn't flare.

_She's unhappy… not scared, just… crestfallen. She thought she'd never have to do this again._

"I'll come with you," Jane said.

"I'd rather you didn't."

"But I could help."

"Jane, I say this with as much care as I can muster, but I don't want you in negotiations with me. You would only be a liability."

"But I'm your weapon, remember? See?"

Lights flickered on and off, but no bulbs were burst in the surge.

"What changed between the cockpit and here? I thought I was... I'm getting better," Jane mumbled.

"I know. I'm proud!" A said. "But, believe me, it's better for you this way. I turn into someone that I don't want you to see."

"I like to think I know the real you."

"You do," A said.

A's assurance.

A for 'authentic'.

"Then why won't you let me help you?" Jane asked.

"Because I hope the real you can trust the real me to do her job. You may accompany me for as long as you can keep out of sight, but I don't want Frollo knowing you're here. He will- he could... It would only end badly for you. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Jane answered, hanging her head.

"C'mon," A whispered, tilting her chin up, the two framed in the window over the canal. "Let's go catch a few zzz's before we make any back-alley deals. Don't tell me flying across the Atlantic didn't take it out of you."

She led Jane to her very own room, which included: elevated half-canopy bed with draped lavender curtains, sumptuous silver sheets, and down pillows for miles. A nudged her in easily, squeezed her hand, and left her to her thoughts.

Jane preferred sleep.

* * *

"You mean it's like this, even during the day?" Jane asked.

She and A were walking through De Wallen, the infamous red-light district of Amsterdam. Stone buildings with red shutters and crimson doorways sprouted like organic fungi amid the canals, backlit windows dressed with mannequins… and humans.

Male, female, androgynous. Bikini or boxer clad, corseted, kinky thigh-high boots with leather crops and whips and more exotic switches, beckoning passersby to come in for the sexual experience of a lifetime. A horde of English college students rocketed past, taking pictures at the windows and pointing out particularly tantalizing options. Another group of middle-aged tourists passed by more slowly, fanny packs, disposable cameras and Amsterdam tourism maps open and on display like medals of pride. They stopped and asked A to take their picture around the _Belle_, the first statue erected in honor of sex workers worldwide. A bronze cast of a woman in an open doorframe, the inscription read, "Respect sex workers all over the world." Jane tried for respect, but fell short at pity. Prostitution was legal, but starkly alien to Jane's already withering moral compass. She could not harden her heart so, could not dissociate after what she had been through during her first sexual experience.

In short, she was simply not brave enough.

They made their way through the bulk of De Wallen, cobblestoned streets funneling down into an alley way that bottomed out at an austere building, architecturally complex and playing at sacrosanctity. Gargoyles hung off precipices, demonic guardians quietly considering all approachers. The wooden and ironed double doors looked impenetrable.

"Just try to avoid detection," A said. "I can't believe I even let you walk up here with me. He's probably got cameras in the eyes of those statues."

"I think I would have sensed them."

"You can 'sense' them as well?"

"Somewhat. Not really. I mean, no, not like a sixth sense—"

"Which we'll be watching at Halloween—"

"What? No, I can just… tell. Sometimes, when gadgets are present. And speaking of gadgets…" Jane dug her hand into the pocket of her skirt, and out came a pair of EPs.

"Are these really necessary?" A asked, sliding the nude plastic into her ear despite the protest.

"Consider it a safeguard. You can call for me if you're ever uncomfortable."

"Because you exude such comfort with your standoffish demeanor and dry-come-surly humor?" A teased.

"Please be careful," Jane did not rise to the bait. "Just… please."

"Never," A said, echoing Jane's New York sentiment. "Wait for me at the corner, just there. I'll do what I can."

A shouldered open the double doors of the establishment. Jane's last view of A was the curvature of her shoulder blades in a backless black dress and the dip of her Achilles tendon, offset by a pair of spiked scarlet high heels. Her footsteps echoed off the stone floor inside until the wooden door slammed shut, sealing Jane off from her only friend in the world.

* * *

That is, until she saw A wide-eyed and worried, looking down with a '_what the hell did you do?_' face, as Jane was forced to her knees in front of a mahogany desk.

"Found this one lurking around outside of your office, Judge," a guard said, forcing Jane down.

"What now, a little white dove, taking refuge in the rafters where she doesn't belong?"

Judge Claude Frollo Debauche and his working quarters reeked of an undeserved and pretentious dignity. He rose, slowly, in a tailored grey suit from behind his desk. The office was lined with books from ceiling to floor, a pot of tea with saucers and cups rattling on a wheeled service tray between his desk and wing-backed guest chair. There were no windows, but a portrait of _himself_ behind his own leather seat, as if he wanted his subjects to be met with double the number of judging eyes whenever in his presence. His chin and nose were long and sharp as cleavers, his cheeks sunken and eyes yellowing from what might have been a cocaine or methamphetamine addiction. In his high-collared suit and slim purple tie he looked every bit as intimidating as A had described. What pushed it to the limit of villainy was his self-righteous sneer, and the King James Bible perched accusingly atop his desk.

He moved calmly toward Jane with his hands linked together over his stomach.

"Rise, fool girl."

Jane's gaze held fast, though her nerves were leaking through her jittery knees. Frollo circled her, predatory, eyed her up and down and wrapped clammy, spindly fingers around her bicep. She tried to shirk away, but he yanked her closer.

"Some life in this one," Frollo nearly drooled into her ear, and it took all of Jane's willpower not to wretch. "Blonde and pale… we have a bit of surplus on the blondes. But we could chop that off, dye it black, turn you into a rough little fighter—"

"Judge Frollo," A had risen from the winged-back guest chair and was now sitting atop the front of his desk seductively, left knee hitched over her right and red heels popping against sheer black panty hose.

"Madame…" he replied, and stuck his long, sinister nose into Jane's hair. He inhaled, and Jane forced her eyes shut. "So sorry to interrupt our meeting, Madame Rose, but I have a special place to put beautiful intruders. Please excuse me while I deal with—"

"My surprise for you?" A answered, voice velvety and low. Maybe a tinge of a French accent. She rose from the desk and sauntered to the pair, face stern, implacable. She hummed when she was mere inches from Jane and licked her glossed lips.

"A brief demonstrazion, for your pleazure, Judge," A whispered to him.

Frollo's brow attempted to crawl off his head, but he stepped back, curious.

"Say nothing and don't resist me," A whispered, and lifted Jane's chin dramatically with her forefinger. Their gazes didn't break and A ran the finger between Jane's eyes, down the bridge of her nose, and traced her lips.

Jane stood cautiously in her skirt, dark tights ripped and ruined from her climb up the exterior brick of the building; her blouse was tousled, damp, and missing a button from one particularly tight widow frame she had attempted to squeeze through. When A had left her outside, it took only seconds for Jane to realize the EPs were having trouble picking up any sound on her short-wave frequency. Jane needed to get in the building, and had only just begun to distinguish the familiar hum of A's voice from the static when two men were on her, tossing her unceremoniously onto Frollo's office floor.

_I'm normally much more aware, but I had to hear her…_

_Liability._

"You told me eet would take quite ze exchange for you to, what was eet? _Squeal_ on our dear Hans," A said, dragging her right hand over Jane's hip as she walked behind her. "I told you I 'ad been learning somzing new, while in Japan, Judge Frollo." A's left hand started at the back of Jane's left shoulder and then slid treacherously down her arm, until her fingers were wrapped tightly in Jane's own. A lifted their joined arms skyward as Frollo leaned back on his desk, observing the whole affair.

"I… suppose you could say, _recruited_ some help, for my more elaborate performances. Lily 'ere was supposed to wait until I called for her, but she's just so, mmm, _curious_."

A ran her nose and mouth down Jane's extended left arm and paused at her shoulder, inhaling deeply, and then pursed her lips against the covered skin at the juncture.

"Mmm, ma fille préférée," A whispered, yet loud enough for the judge to hear.

Frollo seemed intrigued.

Jane was… overheated. With A pressed so intimately upon her, every nudge, every blink, every exhale became erotic. But Frollo's presence made the entire affair unwholesome and foul. Arousal and disgust battled intensely.

"My surprize, my… agreement," A continued. "A one-night-only show for your more sophisticated clientele. Wiz my partner 'ere," at that, she tilted Jane's head sideways to expose her neck, and placed a kiss on her jugular. Jane felt A's steamy tongue slide over her pulse point and instinctively tilted her neck back further, until A spoke again. "Madame Rose and Lily, at your disposal, Judge Frollo."

Jane couldn't watch Frollo any more, her eyes closing against her will. A's voice pirouetted and puffed over her saliva-slick neck. If Jane was supposed to be acting like a professional, her cover was blown. She was enjoying this far too much.

"Have you two ladies been working together…long? I only accept the highest level of professionalism," Frollo stated, though the bulge in his pants seemed to betray his doubts for the pairing.

"Just celebrated our four month annivezary," A purred.

Jane felt A smile into her skin, for the number was accurate, since their first meeting. A maneuvered their twined left arms and draped them over her own freckle-speckled shoulder, urging Jane's head back to rest securely in the crook at the right side of her neck. She forced Jane's fingers into the fine hairs of her messy updo at the base of her skull, intent for Jane to keep her hand there. A's own hand slithered downward, a serpent intent on wrapping itself around its prey, suffocating any pure thoughts in the brain by redirecting the blood flow toward the genitalia. A's fingers splayed over Jane's abdomen and she rocked Jane in her arms flirtatiously, more than likely focused on Frollo. Jane didn't care. Had the situation not been dangerous as _hell_, the blonde would have been content to remain in the position for eternity.

"And the title of your show?" Frollo asked.

"Title?" A said, clearly caught off-guard.

"For advertising purposes, you understand. Should any of my more exotic bidders wish for a premium place in the audience."

"Sun," Jane managed, though A's skin probably absorbed the sound.

"What was that? Speak up, girl," Frollo said.

Jane's head snapped forward, eyes boring into Frollo's jaundiced pupils because he had _soiled_ her friend.

"I'm no girl, Judge Frollo," Jane seethed, tightening A's arms around her waist.

_If I'm squeezed to death, I hope it's in this embrace_.

"I'm the moon. And my Madame is the sun." Jane felt bolder, braver, A's presence just the jolt she never knew she needed. Her left hand abandoned the curls at the base of A's neck in lieu of caressing A's face, running a gloved finger along a rounded cheek. Jane couldn't see her, but felt A tense against her back. The copper-headed woman soon melted, like the first shocking bite of snow cone meeting an earnest, hot mouth. "And together, we are two celestial bodies that should never be joined, in constant opposition. We nonetheless control the movements of the Earth. Print that on your advertisements."

"A narrative for the ages. I would have expected nothing less from you, Madame." Frollo turned back to his desk, a sign that the audition had ended. A released Jane from her grip and the blonde stepped aside reluctantly, body bereft of A's arms and thus depleted of all confidence.

"You'll be in Utopia for the performance tonight. I trust you remember the location?" Frollo asked, thin tongue wetting the end of a feathered _quill_, for fuck's sake.

_I can think of a few locations to bury that quill—_

"I recall," A replied.

"Will you be needing any production supplements?"

A turned to Jane, face placid while simultaneously suppressing a thousand apologies. Like _she_ was the one that had gotten them into this mess. It was really Jane's fault, and now they were going to have to _perform_, all because Jane was so intent on finding Hans, because she wanted… needed that damn information.

_I suppose I can swallow whatever remaining pride I have and take one for the proverbial team. This is my responsibility, my fault, for being apprehended._

"A pole," Jane said.

Again, A tensed, imperceptible save for Jane. Perhaps Jane was more attuned to A's body, a symptom of close quarters and intent study.

"That, you shall have," Frollo said, his threatening baritone bouncing off the paneled walls and Gothic furnishings. "Perform as you promise, and I'll do my best to locate Mr. Westerguard for you ladies. He may not be a difficult man to find, but he is not easily caught. Unless you offer a private performance."

Neither A nor Jane spoke, Jane rather astounded that she hadn't been shackled and hauled away at gunpoint and forced onto a semen-stained mattress. On the list of possible outcomes for the meeting, A openly groping and kissing her ranked far below gun pointed escort.

"Dismissed," Frollo said, bored yet calculating.

A inclined her head forward then turned, briskly bypassing two large guards who ogled the two women, tongues wagging like salivating dogs.

"Don't speak," A ordered, as she led Jane out of Frollo's headquarters.

They were out of De Wallen before A could even look at her.

"I told you to stay out of sight!" A shouted.

"I'm— I'm sorry."

"Sorry's not going to keep you from getting up on a stage in less than… hell, ten hours!"

"I couldn't hear you, the EP frequency was—"

"I don't _care_ about the ear pieces, Jane. You should have listened to me!"

"And what? Left you to fend for yourself alone? Up there, doing… things?"

"Stripping, Jane? We're big girls, here," A huffed, running her hands over her face. "I'm not angry at you, I'm sorry," A said evenly. "I'm just… angry at the situation. I was trying to spare you all of this. And then in there, I just said the first thing that came to me—"

"That we were partners?"

"Well, we kind of are. Nearly all lies have a kernel of truth to them. But now you've gone and gotten yourself into it, too. They're expecting—" A placed a hand to her head, rubbed her temples and let her hands slide over her round cheeks, astounded at the horror. "They're going to expect some depraved _sex_ show, Jane."

"That's not, well… I mean, I think I have an idea so we won't have to… uhm, to, well—"

"There's no way around not stripping, Jane. That's sort of in the burlesque credo."

"No, just, remember what I said? About the sun, and, and the moon?"

"Yeah, what was that?" A asked, clacking along the canal walkway.

The window boxes were in full bloom, purples and pinks winking at the women as they strolled and spoke of sex. The air was thick with pollen. Even the plants were thinking about coupling.

"Because the sun and the moon are opposites, but also sort of mirrors. I can get some of my ropes, use the pole, you can stay grounded, and we would never have to… actually… touch. Not until the end, and by then, the show will be over. Nothing... prolonged."

"Now you're a _sexy_ closeted circus performer? Jane, this isn't something we can throw together. These men pay in the thousands to see top-notch exotic eroticism, not some amateur aerialist playing at stripteases."

"Then I won't play. And I'd hardly call myself an amateur."

"Stripper, or aerialist?" A returned, cutting. She brought her left arm up around her chest and propped her right on her left fist, biting the knuckles of the opposite hand in frustration. "We can call this whole thing off right now. Leave the country, go back to New York. Or Louisiana. You and I don't have to do any of this," A insisted, halting under a shaded tree along the river walk. "It all depends on how badly you want the information."

_This? I never wanted this. But the chance to relearn my history, a chance to find out who I really am… I've never wanted anything else._

"I need to know what information Hans has about my background," Jane said.

"Fine. Then we better get to work."

"I never intended for you to have to do this, you know. I think we've reached the terminal for reciprocity. I will forever, as they say, 'owe you one'."

"You don't owe me anything," A sighed, sincere. "If getting that information from Hans will make you happy, then I'll do it. No more doing things out of some twisted sense of obligation. From here on out, everything I do with you I do because I wish to do it. I will not be compelled, and I will refuse any request that I deem outrageous. But know that I want to help you, and I probably always will."

"I… thank you," Jane said.

Resuming their walk, they strategized back to their suite at the Amstel Amsterdam. After a brief detour to a costume shop and a hardware store, the girls returned to De Wallen just an hour shy of midnight. It was nearly showtime again, so the girls waltzed right into Club Utopia, hoping beyond hope that it was not, instead, hell on earth.

* * *

_Well, that escalated quickly. Dare I ask for... thoughts? And, if it wasn't already quite obvious, I don't speak French. And writing in accented dialect is difficult. Might not be doing that again. Also, this isn't a slight or anything to Amsterdam. I'll be the first to say that all of my info comes from Google, so I don't mean to offend any European readers. Thanks, as always!  
_


	22. Fair Moon, Envious Sun

_I don't own Frozen._

* * *

"Are you ready?" Anna whispered.

"No."

"Are you nervous?"

"I'm trembling."

"Well, at least we have incentive to make it flawless. You gave the audio tech the recording?"

She watched Jane's throat tighten in the lackluster space below the stage. The woman gulped and pulled her arms across her abdomen, another default move that signified extreme nervousness.

"Yes, I gave it to him."

"Just repeat everything I say. Remember, it's just a story, twenty minutes of our lives to tell a story," Anna said.

Anna touched the EP at her ear and yanked at one of the multiple straps holding all of her girly bits in place. There was enough makeup on her face to make a drag queen shudder, and enough adrenaline in her veins for her to dead lift a MINI Coop. They stood below in what might once have been an orchestra pit, now sealed over to give the performers more room to move. She could hear floor boards creaking overhead, tiny streams of light fighting through cracks and slicing the thick gloom like a scalpel. A snowy television monitor was flipped on, static scratchy against outdated speakers.

"You should get ready for your entrance," Anna said, turning toward Jane.

"I— I take it back. I'm so scared. I can't do this."

"Sure you can, I know you can. You can do anything if you want it enough."

"Is that your motto?" Jane asked.

"It's what I say to… live with myself afterwards."

"Don't put it like that."

"Fine. Just… talk to me. Don't pay attention to anyone else, just… respond to me."

"The sun is the leader," Jane said, all monotone and no tease.

"Yes, but you're the one with extrasensory abilities. Go on, I expect to see you on a rope in a few minutes."

"Tell me again how to… how can I—"

"Turn it off? Up here?" Anna asked, swiping a blind hand near Jane's head. She didn't want to touch the girl for fear of marring her own face paint, but she needed to give her some form of reassurance. Anna stepped closer and wrapped her in a hug of solidarity. For her, it was love; one-sided, but she was not bitter. If Jane was scared, it was Anna's duty to temper the fright. She could moon over feelings unreturned when they weren't about to take their clothes off for who knows how many strangers.

"None of it counts," Anna whispered. "Whatever we do on that stage, it stays on that stage. That's not us. Those are performers who have never known… _will_ never know a friendship like we have. I don't want this to interfere with the progress you've— that we've made, Jane. Right now, this is me. This is A, and nothing that happens up there changes that."

Jane nodded into her shoulder then withdrew, slinking out of the dim stage underbelly as quietly as a forgotten yesterday.

Anna turned her attention to the bleary monitor trained on the performance space overhead. Frollo swooped onto the stage, a sophisticated theatre-in-the-round set up with one-sided paneled glass that allowed the patrons to view the show, but didn't allow the performers to see just who they were performing for. Client discretion, and all that.

_Confidential voyeurism._

"Good evening," Frollo intoned, fingers steepled at his chest. "I have called you all for this exclusive performance tonight, an exceptional experience that I guarantee will be worth your while." Frollo circled the hexagonal stage in measured, deliberate steps. "Everyone here has a peculiar standard, an undeniable quality of… taste," Frollo nearly hissed. "I myself have reserved a booth for the evening, as I've witnessed just a, _glimpse_, of what will occur." Frollo was smiling to himself, mouth line wide but closed like a viper. Anna half-expected his tongue to dart out and taste the sex in the air. "It is, truly, an ardent, _virginal_ debut.

"No eyes other than yours have seen this show in Europe. No ears have heard their words, listened to their… mmm… pleas, their cries, nor has anyone bared witness to this unlikely consummation, the love affair between the moon and the sun. Madame Rose and her partner Lily are here to grant you an enticing, entertaining evening. They will prepare your palate, whet your appetite, and further delicacies may be sampled as the night wears on. The second half of your payments will be due after the performance. Keep that in mind as you… enjoy yourselves. Without further ado—"

Frollo bowed his head and the lights went down, signaling the cue Anna had been dreading since Jane had first mentioned her intention to fly to Amsterdam. Only this time, Anna would not be taking the stage alone.

Comforted. Regretful.

The sound guy played the first cue of a rooster crowing, and Anna stepped onto the platform. A trap door slid open above her head and she was raised on a hydraulic lift to center stage, Judge Frollo certainly not skimping on production value.

_Let his avarice and lust be his downfall._

The lights came up, soft goldenrod beams against shiny maple floorboards. There was a metal pole at the center of the stage, and four ropes strategically draped through the rafters, subdividing the stage into four hemispheres.

The rooster crowed again and Anna blinked against the stage lights, raising her arms as she yawned and stretched.

"Mmm, good morning," she said, to no one in particular. She trudged around the pole at the stage's center, giggling and pantomiming flower picking, running her hands along her sheathed arms, over her torso, around the edges of her face. She began in a yellow sundress, hair brushed back in an intricate updo, mustard ribbons running through one of the accent braids lining the back bun. Her heels were unnecessarily high, but it forced a saunter, a poise, and an air of luxuriant assuredness that Anna needed to become Madame Rose. To become the woman who would play the 'Sun'.

To be the person Jane needed her to be, to get through this ordeal.

Desolate string music poured through a loudspeaker system and she continued to amble, aimlessly, around the pole. She touched herself innocently, skipping fingers over her sheer long sleeves and twirling the end of a loose ribbon. Anna leaned her full body against the pole, grasping onto it behind her as she had the slack line tree trunk.

"Want to know a secret?" she said to the one-sided windows.

_It's all empty. There's no one here. Just pretend there's no one here._

"I'll tell you. I am terribly lonely, watching over the Earth. Shining everyday, burning so brightly. And every moment I shine I'm really dying, a little more, dimming infinitesimally, but no one notices me."

_Why does that have to be true?_

"No one notices me," a voice echoed her.

Anna feigned confusion and jerked her head around. The spotlight on her at center stage was powerful, bright and stinging and hot, sweat already forming under her arms and in the webbing between her gloved fingers.

"Who's there?" Anna asked.

"There."

"No, who are you?"

"Are you?"

"Where are you?"

"Where."

"Why must you make this so difficult?"

There was movement overhead, the disembodied voice no longer bodiless. Jane perched atop the middle pole like a nightingale in shadow. Blue shafts of light hit her pale form from below, creating a strategic lit gradient of cerulean haze that percolated into familiar sheens of gold and daffodil from top to bottom.

"Difficult…" Jane said, melancholic.

"Oh!" Anna exclaimed. "I've heard of you…"

"You," Jane said, and reached down toward Anna. Jane had worn textured gloves to aid in the climbing, but the rest of her arms were bare and scintillating.

"Are you the moon?"

Jane nodded and slid down slightly, her legs wrapped securely around the pole. Her controlled descent was acrobatic, and she was tantalizing. Anna was wilder, but charming. Opposites and contraries and paradoxes.

"The moon," Jane echoed.

"I've never met you before."

"Never."

"Why must you repeat me?"

"Repeat me."

"Can you come closer so I can see you?"

"You come."

"I asked you first."

"I asked you."

"This is getting us nowhere."

Jane inched downwards again, slipping against the pole and into the more revealing light of the stage, soundless, contained, a blue gel filter still shining on her airy position.

"_Us_," Jane nearly moaned it, clutching the pole and warping her body around it. She tucked her head against the cylindrical metal and reached desperately for Anna, whimpering in her failures. Anna faced the pole and then thrust her body toward it, letting her hand linger against the smooth metal as she drew it steadily upward. Her palm finally flattened against the silver, but her fingers couldn't reach, Jane's toes at least two feet out of range. Anna jumped and clung to the pole, then slipped down, her movements weighted, retarded. She clawed at a surface with no traction.

Anna had done Jane's makeup and had selected the costumes. But seeing Jane 'in character', presented for her on stage like some holy offering... it made her burn, made her _flare_, made her truly understand the longing the sun might just harbor for an unattainable moon.

They had chosen muted blues, all to enhance the moon's stark contrast to the sun's jovial yellows. Jane's first layer was little more than a slip, an unassuming square neckline and silk material cinching at Jane's waistline and then flowing down, down, calflength with slits on both sides. The only problem was, the slits went up to her hip bones, and Jane still had both legs wrapped around that pole.

_Pale, muscular legs everywhere._

Jane had somehow managed to control the lighting: she wore a pair of short white gloves with pearl buttons at the wrist. They disguised most of her gestures and finger flicks, but Jane had attached some sort of bleached sandpaper grip to the palms and fingers to better negotiate the pole and ropes. Lights on Anna burned as the pale blue around Jane shone a bit brighter, enhancing the polarized nature of the performance.

The music volume increased. Violin lament.

Anna took a step to the right and Jane planted her feet against the left side of the pole. She extended her body outwards at an angle, holding herself in an almost standing position using little more than body strength and physics. Human flag. Anna's banner. Anna reached her hands skyward and Jane retreated, groping behind her to find one of the black ropes.

"Wait!" Anna said, still glued to the bottom center. "Where are you going?"

"Going."

"Please, don't. I'm so lonely."

"Lonely."

"Why… why do you repeat me?"

"Repeat."

Anna raised an arm and Jane did the same.

Another reach up, another retreat.

Anna tilted her head to the side and Jane matched her. Anna's lights went up and Jane's reflected, the seesaw of onstage luminescence continuing.

"So you're my—"

"You're my."

"Mirror."

"Mirror."

Anna pointed her index finger and placed it on her chin. Jane mimicked her. She traced her jaw leisurely, smiling as Jane did the same. Her finger abandoned her face and swirled her own ear, veering down her neck and leaping over her collarbone. Jane copied her movements, yet in the replication, had transferred her weight from the pole and swung onto one of the hanging black ropes. Anna remained in the center and observed Jane's progression, her eyes never leaving the blonde as she moved from rope to rope, not ape-like, but not entirely human, either.

As she circled, no, _orbited_ Anna, Jane twisted and writhed against the ropes in maneuvers that would have Cirque du Soleil jaws dropping. She was magician, costume never catching, gloves never slipping. Just a body, twirling. She was a sprite: lithe, sinful, lecherous, limber. And to Anna she was criminal and constellation, heavenly. Her body somersaulted in midair and dangled, inverted, for what felt like months. Jane then trickled down softer than mist in adolescent autumn. When her foot hit the stage's edge she dipped forward into a front walk-over, a showcase of scissoring bare leg and undergarments. That was the same move Jane had used at the Carazolla showcase, so many lifetimes ago. Jane righted herself and stared at Anna, pupils navy in their dilation. She dragged her feet behind her as she stalked around the stage, blue lights and pale skin circling a yellow hub. She extended her legs regally, développé into arabesque into drooping pivot, a strut of smothering sexuality.

"You're beautiful," Anna stage whispered.

"Beautiful," came the reply.

Hypnosis.

"I wish... I wish to feel you. Touch me."

"Touch me," Jane begged, and ran her own hands over her neck, her face.

Anna reached an arm out toward Jane and Jane lifted hers in Anna's direction, their fingers swimming uselessly in the open air before them. As Anna slowly dropped her arm, Jane's fell.

Resigned synchronicity.

"I want you."

"Want."

"To shine."

"Shine."

"I want…"

"Want."

"… to be moon kissed."

Jane stopped her rotation and squared her shoulders in Anna's direction. She did not waver. No blink. No twitch.

"Kissed."

Anna touched a hand to her cheek and Jane did the same: they ran their indexes and middle fingers over the dips of their respective dimples; over arched noses; around closed eyelids; along curving jaw lines; on sensitive, parted lips.

"Imagine me—" Anna commanded.

"Imagine."

"On you."

"You."

"Near you."

"You."

"A part of you."

"_You_," Jane pleaded.

"I'll burn—" Anna said, and took hold of the center pole. She twisted on the balls of her feet and spun around, her lemon dress ballooning and then falling as she unhooked a hidden clasp at her sternum. The blanket of yellow dropped and pooled at her ankles and Anna continued circling the center, picking her feet up out of the garment and stepping just a little higher, swaying her hips with more than natural vigor. Two hands on the pole, and she swung herself around, head arched back as the lights scrutinized her and heated her already searing skin. She felt the pole between her thighs and she squeezed her quadriceps together for better support, eyelids shutting as she concentrated on her own revolution.

She was in a blush-and-ochre corset and tights combo now, fishnets stamping diamond patterns into her legs and the paneled boning around her stomach dampening her breaths. Her garter belt and clasps were digging into her skin like a lover's nails, and Anna was having difficulty distancing herself from the situation. The long gloves were palmless, again for a better grip on the pole. They tickled the crease of her elbow, requesting to be discarded like the dress before them. She rolled her neck slowly (though that had not been in the choreography) and brought her hand to her own nape, raking her felt-covered fingers over the protruding vertebrae and scratching over the curve of her shoulder to where the top of her floating breast met the fabric of the corset.

Anna watched as Jane copied her movements, the indentions from the other girls' fingers on pale flesh barely visible on stage. Jane had followed her, though the movement was unplanned. Anna turned her head to her left shoulder, eyes glued to Jane. She kissed her own body and then licked her freckled skin, lips and chin dragging along her shoulder due to her short neck and the awkward angle. She felt her own spit in the tiny divot between her bottom lip and chin. Jane followed, _so obediently_, and the blonde's saliva glistened on her lower mouth.

"And you will reflect," Anna finished.

Jane's turn now. The first wave.

Jane continued to circle the margins of the rounded stage, but likewise rotated in her own circle, an orbit within a revolution. And in her spins, her thin blue dress fell away. First one thick strap, and then the other, peeled off her frame like a banana skin. Strips of gauzy material trailed in her wake.

Soft moondust.

She wore no stockings; her legs had been rubbed down in a gritty white rosin prior to the show to strengthen her hold on poles and ropes alike. But draped around her hips was the remainder of her dress: a short miniskirt with a jagged hem that was knotted at her left hip, the slits still riding high on her legs. The cut displayed several square inches of creamy skin better suited for a lotion advert than tawdry stripteases. Beneath it, the stringed ties of a midnight-blue thong peeked out coquettishly. And her torso: heavens, her torso. The bodice glittered in anemic aquas and indigos, but when the lights hit her _just there_, the sequins exploded and refracted, casting star patterns into the darkness outside of her spotlight. It was nothing so tacky as a disco ball, but prismic, faceted, a diamond perfectly cut. Her hair was up in an intricate bun, but no ribbons, no accessories.

_I want it down. I want too see her loose, bare, and unbound._

Jane was there, following Anna's lead.

At Anna's _mercy_.

Anna rolled her shoulders this time, and felt something shift. Internally, eternally, in her mind, in her gut, her heart, her lungs, her liver, her kidneys, her glands. Name an organ (vestigial, central), it was impacted.

_Lust_.

Wicked, consuming lust, the vice Frollo pandered to perverted millionaires, had walloped Anna onstage. Distance and compartmentalization had been easier once upon another time, separation from a 'character' simpler because there was less at stake. But now, Anna wanted to be Madame Rose. Wanted to be the Sun. Wanted to be able to perform salacious acts with Jane because it was her _job_, dammit, and if she didn't make it good it could get them thrown into sexual slavery until their bodies gave out like aged car engines.

_Sure, let me think that's why I'm doing this. Like I'm not enjoying every flounce, every twitch and nude swath of epidermis._

So she decided to give herself over to her demons.

Anna died and A emerged, damn the consequences.

_And resisting is just… so… hard._

A took another deep breath, and everything was transmuted: the world didn't melt away because they were not of the world. It was just the Sun, the Moon, and vast space between them. And if the Sun couldn't circumvent that space, couldn't overcome that distance, she would use what little power she still had to receive pleasure from her closest friend. From the only other celestial body that could match her splendor. She knew the Moon was inconsistent; she best capitalize on her opportunity before the gibbous waned and retreated behind the stars into a separate galaxy.

A raised her arms, bent at the elbows, and began rubbing the back of her neck, her trapezius muscle, the straggling hairs and ribbons below her updo. She twisted and petted her skull and neck, wrenching her hair free and running a searching hand through the tresses. She latched onto a ribbon and tugged, the silk hugging the ridges of her profile as it slid over head, skin, and fabric. She dropped it, and her body fell against the pole at center stage, groaning at the stinging sensation of releasing her tightened follicles. She gathered up a lock and began fingering it with both hands, biting her lip as she turned to Jane.

"Your turn."

"Turn."

A smirked at Jane's cleverness, twirling slowly as Jane set about freeing her own hair. She unwrapped the convoluted braid like a turban, then twisted the bottom tie with flawless fingers. Instead of raking her hands through from crown to end as A had done, Jane meticulously unwound the plait, following the pattern of over and under and over once more, until only platinum waves remained. Jane's handful of fingers brushed back layered bangs from her forehead, and A wagered Diana herself would have been envious. Jane bowed indecently, her nose to her knees, then arched her back up, her hair flying behind her like wheat stalks in wind.

A was bold in her actions. She touched her own body; she watched Jane touch herself. And as she watched, A imagined the touches were traded, exchanged, blonde hair against freckles and tanned fingers clenching lean muscles. She walked slowly in a tiny circle at center, while Jane walked the opposite direction on the exterior. Jane's pace was quicker on the outskirts, but it didn't stop her from mirroring every one of A's movements. A was almost positive their breathing was synched.

She hoped their hearts were.

In the back of her mind, she knew she needed to stop with the teasing and get to something more substantial and show-worthy. But she could feel herself growing wet simply by_ looking_; what further torture would self-gratuitous touching and wanton leering bring?

_I execute every movement wantonly, because I want/only her._

A glared-stared-flared at Jane, her fingers inching up from hips to waist to (finally) cup the underside of her corseted breasts. Jane's fingers dodged sequins and she did the same, though A noticed the other girl had quite the handful. She wished her hands were numb, wished to feel phantom fingers as opposed to her own, for then she could imagine Jane, beautiful, aloof Jane, squeezing and pinching her. For a time there was paralysis, inertia of the moment; because A could hear Jane panting through the EP, could see her mouth gaping, chest expanding into her gloved fingers.

_I want those fingers. Those hands._

Those powerful, formidable hands linked to destruction. But also capable of intricacies, of creation. Hands that literally _gave her life_.

A squeezed herself. Jane's inhale melted into a gasp.

After some heavy fondling, A broke script and withdrew her hands from her chest, looping around the center pole and tugging each finger of her long glove with her teeth. She slipped the piece from her forearm and started on the other, relishing the feel of fabric brushing the hairs on her skin, goosebump reforestation.

"Gloves," A breathed.

At the command, Jane hesitated. This wasn't supposed to happen until the very end, their 'big finish'. In uncomfortable situations, Jane tended to spark. It happened infrequently, if A was with her, but A had witnessed it and felt the results of a distressed Jane. It was heart-stopping.

_Literally_.

With trembling hands, Jane unbuttoned the pearls, slipped her gloves off. Less ado because hers were not long, were not meant to be sexual. The viewers didn't realize that this was Jane's true disrobing. A knew now, with those hands exposed, that Jane felt more naked than she would once the rest of the pieces started falling away. Bare, vulnerable, condemned. She could feel Jane fighting to keep her eyes open, to keep her body still, not to shimmy up that rope and escape through the rafters.

She wanted comforting.

A shut her eyes and ran her fingers through her hair, tucking it behind her own ear. She placed her hands on her own cheek and soothed herself, hoping that Jane could feel her care across the bridge of space they weren't allowed to cross.

_But we've got to get on with it._

A opened her eyes but Jane still had them closed. She needed to get her attention. So with a flat back and locked knees A dropped to the floor and banged her fists into the boards, then drug her hands up the interior of her legs.

A watched Jane watch her, the blonde's eyes widening further and pupils fully blown. Jane mimicked, though stilted, movements more nervous than natural. A marionette, playing at being a real girl.

A rubbed the inside of her thighs in light circles, her legs coming back together as she fell against the pole once more. She brought one hand overhead and gripped the pole, letting her knees buckle as she slid her palm over her covered crotch.

Jane gripped the black rope hanging in that section of the stage with her left hand and her other disappeared into the apex of her legs, her skirt bunching beneath her wrist. Her knees bent and her arm held her weight, but she twisted, in feigned (or real?) bliss. A made a show of moving her palm beneath her legs, trying to keep a hold on the performance, trying to withstand the sight of Jane shaking on the rope. A groaned and then stood, hands peeling away the panels of her corset, leaving her abdomen bare but breasts and bottom still covered.

The music shifted from tragic to relentless. Strings gave way to bass beats, technoesque music with lasers simulating falling and exploding meteorites. It was now the song of stars, of solar flares and moon beams prospering despite their distance.

Jane attended to her own attire. The skirt flew across the stage and revealed a navy thong. Her bodice seemed to shatter into sequined streams, leaving Jane— _the moon_, with a swatch of cobalt fabric running horizontally over peaked bosoms, pinched at her cleavage with a diamond.

_Her star._

A strutted about the center and touched herself: stomach breasts hair shoulders neck thighs hips crotch lips more. She broke her central position and took one step toward the outskirts of the stage. At that moment, the right strap of her bra snapped off and the lights dimmed slightly. Jane had conversely taken a step toward the center, and her steel blue filter shifted toward lit sapphire. The left strap of her bustier was no longer present.

A continued circling in her interior orbit, sweating now, from the stage lights and unquenchable arousal. She cried out, nonsensical, when her own nails raked over her cleavage, over the scar Jane had left on the beach in St. John. It was so tiny, barely there, really, the shape of a smiling crescent.

It had taken A weeks to understand the figure, realization dawning one evening in Louisiana when Anna had offered to give Jane a manicure. It had been one of her nails, which Jane usually kept clipped close. When she had shocked her on the night sand, Jane hadn't just touched her: Jane _dug_ into her skin, _clung_ to her, _attached_ and _marked_ her with scar and jolt. It was an undeniable physical connection to an other that now labeled Anna as someone Jane had saved: the resurrected conwoman. The mark was faint but present, and it was scorching.

A needed to get this costume off, needed for this whole farce to end… but more than that, she needed to touch Jane.

A took another step toward the outside of the stage and Jane marched inward one foot, the remaining straps from their costume bras snapping from their shoulders as lights continued to dim, and bulbs began to spark. A made unintelligible noises and Jane was whining, stomping to the insistent beat in clockwise and counter circles, every time missing each other's outstretched fingers by a hairsbreadth. A palmed her breast aggressively and stretched another arm toward Jane, and Jane stretched her arm toward A. Their fingertips kissed, and more sparks from the lights overhead fell in showers like Perseid residue.

After they touched, the circling patterns continued. But there was another shift: A descended, and Anna reemerged, lust usurped by misery. As a con, as 'A', she could perform without feeling. Do it because she had to, because she liked being naughty. But Anna, the real Anna, she still had a conscience. As much as A wanted to get off on this little charade, Anna didn't want it to happen. Not like this. What if Jane didn't want it? She had been hesitant before the show began. What if this screws them over?

_What if this ruins everything?_

For on the next pass, she and Jane would finally meet each other. On the next pass, they would be able to touch and explore.

And on the next pass, none of it would be real.

The scar at Anna's chest prickled. Her eyes did, too. And maybe her heart.

She yelled and took the final step outward and strode briskly in her counter clockwise motion; Jane moved in, quick step speeding her own route clockwise. When they met, hands flew to the other's chests and removed the final barrier. Yellow and blue lights dwindled to darkness as the topless girls held each other, static for the first time since the show began. Sparks and strobes flew about them like winking fireflies on a Louisiana lakeside.

Anna thought they had given the viewers a tasteful yet sensual narrative: the Sun, so desperate for company, had damaged space to be with the Moon. The pair consummated their love in a sparkling meteor shower while the universe imploded. Neither night nor day could know light without the Sun and Moon's separation.

Anna also thought she would enjoy this more than she was. She had Jane here, uncovered, in her arms, and could smell the mint on her breath. But the fact that Anna was in love with her made the next part all the more tragic.

Their lips met, and Anna cried, because what should have been her first real kiss… was just another con.

* * *

_Oops... My fingers slipped on my keyboard and this happened. Uhm, reviews appreciated?  
_


	23. A for Addiction

_I don't own Frozen. M for sexual situations.  
_

* * *

"Mmmmm… A, oh god, A—A—A!"

Jane bit into the knuckles on her right fist and depressed her clitoris with the pad of her left thumb. She shoved another finger inside of herself, hips canting upward to meet her hand on the grey satin sheets of her bed in the Amstel. Jane groaned again and turned on her side, sweat seeping from the juncture of hairline and forehead. She shut her eyes, and her axons and dendrites recalled A's touch. Jane's fingers were plug prongs wriggling in and out of the electric socket that was her body.

"A—" she moaned.

Tears welled in her eyes. Her windows were open and she could see street lamps reflect off a river of licorice. She kept picturing A, grinding against the pole in the center of Frollo's rounded stage; releasing the button-eye hook that secured the panels of her corset; yanking the garment away to reveal tanned, nubile flesh; tonguing her lips in the darkness of Club Utopia as their nipples chaffed against each other. That _look_. That look that made Jane feel like she wasn't even human. Those hooded lids and bedroom eyes just this side of aquamarine; the ones that turned her from girl to snack, a delicacy A couldn't wait to savor.

An unbidden image of A standing behind Jane, with the cartilage of the blonde's ear secured by two rows of possessive incisors.

_Stop imagining things._

Jane sobbed.

She was disgusted with herself.

A had done her level best to help Jane get the information on Hans. Information that could have gotten them thrown into some serious, sexual shit if they had slipped up even once. Jane had debased herself, and had likewise served her friend a large portion of humiliation during the process. The sight of Judge Frollo zipping his slacks as he walked in on them in their dressing room was enough to make her gag. Yet here she was, writhing and masturbating to memories that should have never happened.

Experiences easily avoided.

She had split from A once they walked back into the suite, feigning exhaustion. She mumbled something about the stage lights giving her a headache, which was total bullshit. She _controlled_ those lights, and she slept better during the day anyway, never mind the European time change. The truth of it was written all over her face, and A didn't have to be a skilled people reader to know it. She watched A make her way toward the minibar to mix herself a thirty dollar cocktail. Jane had contemplated the selection in her own room, and her bloodstream was begging to be drowned in alcohol.

The first time she guzzled booze was the night _it_ happened. The night she lost her virginity. At first, she drank to remember the sensations (physical, emotional). Then she realized he wasn't coming back. And when it hadn't happened like it should've, when she didn't feel whole after the coupling, she gave herself over to liquid forgetting. Seven months of haze, combined with scores of sparking accidents, several of which led to arson cases, two fender-benders, one sloppy plane landing, a broken arm, and finally, the death of an innocent bystander.

A father of three, a decent man, who had seen a skeletal looking teenager on the darkened Chicago streets with a brown paper sack in one hand, tattered clothing draped on a malnourished frame. He had come to see what was wrong. ("Can I call someone for you?" he had asked, and placed a hand on her shoulder.) As soon as the man touched her Jane whirled in her stupor, shooting a current of electricity so powerful it had blackened the palm of the man's hand. His eyes were green and glazed, his mouth drooped open and his tongue unfurled into a puddle on a cracked sidewalk. He wore a tie with ducks on it. Five o'clock shadow. A scar below his left ear. Glasses. Receding hairline. His skin sizzled like egg yolk in a skillet.

She had called 911 and hidden behind a corner, watched the police, the ambulance (_too late, _she thought), the medical examiner pull a white sheet over a dead face. In her trembling hands she held his wallet, looked at the school pictures of two boys and a little girl. Another of him and a woman with dishwater blonde hair. Three credit cards. Sixty-eight dollars in cash. A business card for a mechanic's garage. An Illinois driver's license. Social security card.

What normal should be. What family should be. What _love_ should be.

Jane had thrown all of her bottles into Lake Michigan and vowed never again.

Six years ago? Seven?

She had still been a child.

A child with an alcohol addiction. No rehab for her, because even in her teens she was a stubborn ass. Looking back, she could have kicked herself for trying to go cold turkey with zero assistance. Shakes. Cold chills. Heat flashes, head rushes, and electric surges. She needed to get her mind off of alcohol. Off of death. Off of contrition. Off of depression. She kept the wallet of that man in her duffel bag at all times. A reminder to never go back, to keep pushing forward, because the past would pool in the recesses of her body, congeal into stagnant infection and suffocate her.

Tuberculosis of the soul.

Whereas computers had been a hobby before, she turned them into obsession. She relocated to New York. Bought another plane. She'd spent nearly eight months creating and perfecting Olaf's code. She stopped going out as much. Turned nocturnal. Her stealing was precise. She had _purpose_ now. Eternal retribution for taking a life. Untraceable funds appeared in a widowed mother of three's account every quarter. Orphanages in distant countries started popping up like fresh spring flower shoots. A benevolent, anonymous donor, concerned with the plight of those abandoned.

Her would-be lover's betrayal exacerbated an all too sensitive emotional abandonment. Jane had wallowed in her loneliness up until her sobriety; so, to turn the new leaf and so forth, she finally started researching her own history. She needed more than ever to find her family. Just _something_. Something to prove she was not a novelty, but a person. Old enough and sober enough to ponder her existence, she cast her nets: medical records, birth certificates, finger prints, anything. She thought she was onto something, a critical case of a young girl at the turn of the millennium, admitted to a Memphis ER, bizarre reactions to medical electronics. But what records there had been were no more, confiscated or sealed or burned for all the information the nurses gave her. One woman remembered the strange case, that the little blonde came in alone.

No parent. No sibling. No fourth cousin twice removed.

No one.

She had been trying for over five years…

Jane discarded the memories and mentally returned to her room in Amsterdam.

So maybe the sun-and-moon performance was justifiable? Stripping while men (or women) got off behind glass panels, violating her only friend for the sake of her identity. Jane needed that information, needed the distraction of an assignment, because it was the only thing keeping her from uncapping one of those tiny London gin bottles and upending it down her throat. She was psychically parched, and the gin would burn, and tingle, and dilute. It would wet the desert of sanity, and lend a forgetful hand.

Jane flopped back right-side up, fingers still working between her legs. Her right hand moved down to palm a breast, but not for satisfaction. Just another means to an end.

In the end, the moon and sun's performance had yielded results. And, if she were being honest with herself, they had gotten more out of Frollo than she thought they would. They were unharmed (relatively), and safe. They were informed. They were going to keep after Hans. It had been worth it. It had to be worth it.

Jane swirled her fingers within her core and released the tiniest _zap_, her internal muscles spasming and contracting against her hand. Her high was short-lived.

_Good. I don't deserve it. _

She wiped her fingers of the fluids on the bed sheets and stared out the widow, gauzy floor-length curtains billowing in the night breeze.

She shut her eyes again but she couldn't escape the memory of kissing A. Plague. Curse. One of the con woman's DVD's perpetually paused, then rewound, replaying the crucial part, the scandalous tableau until it froze itself into the screen. Until it became a painting with no artistry, a picture with no depth, disturbingly pornographic, because none of it was real.

The show itself was nothing compared to the awkwardness backstage and the negotiation that followed. There was a hesitancy and a conscious distancing that hadn't been there before. Before, they hadn't cared. Now, Jane knew she cared too much. Physical attraction. Emotional affection. The like you-_like you _sort of connection. A filled her up like alcohol never could. The blonde had nearly drowned back on St. John, and now, it was happening again.

All at once she was back on stage in A's arms, half-naked and moaning.

* * *

_Jane sucked A's upper lip between her own. Sparks from the ruined lighting systems above fell onto her pale skin, singed a hair, and charred a stray sequin. The smell of burning plastic and sweat-salt. Jane felt A's tongue prod curiously, a toe in the waters. She groaned, parted her lips, and swiped her own against A's mouth. The lights above surged and so did A, nails raking down Jane's back as the girl rolled against her hips. A snapped at the plump flesh of Jane's lip with her upper and lower canines, biting just enough to alarm the blonde. Jane gasped when A's knee crept between her legs, a burgling appendage accustomed to breaking and entering. Jane wrapped her arms around A's waist and pulled her flush. The stage went black. _

_There was a loud beep, signifying the end of the performance. The music stopped. _

_They broke, still near-naked, still holding. Sweating. Panting. Noses touched. Jane's organs were railing. She could feel A's heartbeat (a rhumba) because her chest was practically melded into the blonde's, the feminine lumps massaging each other because of how closely they stood, the desperate pressure with which they embraced. _

_A came back to her, lips brushing only just, and she whispered, "I'm sorry."_

_A wrenched herself away and faded into the darkness._

_Jane felt a tear on her cheek, but it wasn't her own. _

_She fumbled about in the dark and retrieved the discarded slip from the stage floor. She threw it over her head, and returned to the changing room. _

_A was pulling on a pair of grey slacks when she entered. She didn't make eye contact, choosing instead to march through to the bathroom and wash the pancaked gunk off her face. The brightness of the bathroom clashed with the lights of the stage. The theatre had been all soft atmosphere, setting, illumination for mood and milieu. Here the hydrogen bulbs were thrumming and clinical, harsh as autopsy lighting. Liner and mascara clumped in the interior crease of her eyelid. Her lipstick was smeared on her chin._

_A had done that._

_Jane's hair was straggly and her cheeks were searing. She turned on the taps, splashed water on her face, and scrubbed. She reemerged in the grey party dress she had worn to the club that night, still 'in character' as far as Judge Frollo was concerned. But her hair was back in a high pony, Jane willing to do anything to stop the heat from flushing her persistently warm body. The back of her neck was sticky with rosin powder and damp baby hairs. Phantom stings from A's nails flared on her neck as Jane caught sight of her partner. Red chalk lines on a white board, a never-should-have-been. _

_A was sitting with her legs crossed, tense and determined on the couch. Though her arms were draped over the back, her breathing even and composed, she was not relaxed. She didn't look at Jane as she instructed, "Sit by me."_

"_What?"_

"_He'll be here in a few seconds. We need to look like we've done this before."_

_Jane complied, settling herself what she thought was an appropriate distance from the woman she had just molested. Not close enough, for A scooched nearer and turned in to face her, hooded lids obscuring darkened pupils. _

"_I—"_

"_I—"_

Knock knock knock.

"_Ladies," Judge Frollo nearly growled._

_The worry on A's face melted like ice in the sun, but Jane couldn't disguise her contemptuous scowl. Not when Frollo's fly was still open after their show. A shifted so that their torsos were aligned and touching; the cramped contact on the love-seat had Jane's bones boiling._

"_I believe we had an agreement," he said._

"_We 'ave held up our end of ze bargain," A said, once again affecting a French accent. "I always do. You might want to…"_

_Frollo looked down at his crotch, readjusted himself, and pulled the zipper up. He continued, unfazed._

"_That you do, Madame. Tell me, why is it that you are so eager to locate our Mr. Westerguard?"_

"_My reasons are my own, Judge. I don't question your practices."_

"_Nor should you, but you do owe me the respect that comes with age."_

_Jane suffocated the snort threatening to rise. _

"_I'm not ze little flower you picked so long ago, Judge. My reach is not as far, nor my grip as tight as your own, but please don't question my own leverage."_

"_Dare you threaten—"_

"_I am doing nozing of ze sort," A leaned back into the couch, her arm sliding down to rest atop Jane's shoulders. A squeezed Jane's arm, probably to give the blonde some comfort as the conversation escalated. Or maybe A needed comforting herself. _

_Mutual support. Whatever had happened between them on stage, Jane was going to have to stomach it, and then suppress it. Move forward, deal with what's happening in front of her, instead of harping forever on moments that shouldn't matter. A had practically forewarned her._

'_That's not us,' the freckled girl had said._

_So Jane placed her left hand on A's knee. Squeezed, and turned a blank gaze toward Frollo._

"_I'm merely pointing out zat we 'ad an agreement, and I expect you to fulfill zat agreement."_

"_Or what?" Frollo asked._

"_Or I will walk out of 'ere, and make it known to my contacts in ze east zat Judge Frollo Debauché reneges on his oaths. And 'ere I zought you were looking to expand to Asian markets? Judge Frollo, what do you zink I've been _doing_ in Japan for ze past five years?"_

"_What if I don't let you walk away?" Frollo said.  
_

_Blatant threat._

_Jane hissed._

_A smiled._

"_Zen you should expect a visit from a few locally stationed members of ze Yakuza. Zey will not take kindly to a sleight against zeir favorite redhead."_

"_You're bluffing."_

"_Non. Try me, Judge Frollo."_

_A sat back and waited. Frollo scrutinized her. Jane didn't dare breathe._

"_I haven't met with Hans personally, Madame," Frollo began. "He contacted me concerning an upcoming venture. He inquired as to the purchase price of some of my better dancers. Novelty talents especially."_

"_Really? What for?"_

"_That, I cannot say. Knowing him, he has some marvelous scheme up his sleeve. He'll reveal his cards when the time comes. I can say that he's offered me a stake should I want it."_

"_Investment?"_

"_Of course."_

"_Did you buy in?"_

"_The matter is very hush-hush, and he assures me that he will have more information in a few weeks time. I was under the impression that he needed to talk to several others before pitching anything substantial. Though I haven't discounted it, you and I both know Hans is ever the shrewd one. My assistants have sent him my typical charges for the girls."_

"_Only ze girls?" A asked._

"_Yes."_

"_Can you give us anymore information? A location, preferably."_

"_Alas, he informed me two days ago that he would be leaving the country."_

"_And traveling to…"_

"_The U.K., Madame."_

"_London?"_

"_He didn't specify."_

"_Was he meeting wiz anyone in particular?"_

"_I've given you his comings and goings, I am not a personal secretary."_

"_Forgive me, Judge, I did not mean to imply otherwise."_

"_If that is all, ladies."_

_Frollo inclined his head and pivoted, stately, opening the door with a lethal grace. "If you two did wish to stay, I have several bidders open to private showings. One enthusiastic patron is willing to pay you exorbitantly for soft S&M. Under the grounds that he's allowed to participate. I'd take a manager's fee, of course—"_

"_Merci, but we are content," A returned._

_Frollo eyed the pair of them, his drug-drawn face twitching. "Are you sure? You were always a more sensual than sexual performer, Madame, but this is easy money."_

"_I am content, zank you," A said again, harder this time._

"_Good evening ladies."_

"_Judge."_

* * *

Jane rose from bed and shuffled to the ornate writing desk in her suite, flipping open her laptop and booting up. The instrument hummed to life and the screen cast a dull grey pallor on the lacquered table top. In the sheen, Jane could make out her own muddled profile: patchy, fragmented. Much like her past. She pulled up a map of England, two huge red dots blipping at London's Heathrow and a noted hotel in Chelsea. There was another dot, this time further north, in York.

_If Hans isn't staying in London… we need to head him off._

Jane shrugged, then brought her fingers to rub over her tired eyelids. She scooted through the open floor length windows and propped herself on the walk-out railing facing the river. She stared into the full city and let the breeze from the river caress her naked flesh. Her insides felt jumbled, instincts frazzled, emotions raw and fraying. She climbed atop the thin railing, hoping a balancing act would clear her head. A second wind caught her hair, compelled her to acknowledge her moistened fingertips. She sparked, shimmery discharges reflecting off the night waves. Her stomach refused to sit low in her body, instead hammering insistently at her diaphragm, which put pressure on her lungs. She felt faint from the consequential lack of oxygen, and her heart crawled a path up her throat, working its way toward clean air.

Nothing was where it should be. In her head. In her heart. She had once been so compact, so precise and regimented. Then A happened. The Moore mansion. Deburque's. The SUNY showcase. St. John. Louisiana. New York again. Now Amsterdam. And then to London, or further? How far had they come, for them to end up like this? Brooding over a fairy-tale river; contemplating discomforts; ripping pricey sheets in ecstasy; jet-setting in haste and style. What were the odds that both of their lives would filter the mundane and capitalize on the extraordinary? And then, the more astounding, for those two life-lines to intersect?

Jane didn't really believe in fate or fortune cookies, or even magic, despite her powers. She had lived with them for so long that they had become integral, though not quite necessary. She treated her 'magic' as one might a natural artistic ability. Or athleticism. Innate, if artistry or athletics could have you shunned from society. What was second nature to her was anomaly to others, which is why A's casual acceptance forced her to consider some grand design in the preceding weeks. Her previous attempts at rationalization had been ineffectual and left her wanting. Why would tonight's mental hurdles result in anything other than a migraine? Especially considering the activities of the past few hours.

She turned back toward her room and vaulted off the railing. Trudging back toward her bed, Jane resigned herself to restless dozing.

The knock paralyzed her.

"Jane, are you awake?"

She didn't move. Couldn't or wouldn't and definitely shouldn't. She heard A release a long-suffering sigh, and felt a chill along her neck.

_Left the window open._

A's voice was clear as diamond. She could imagine A was right by her shoulder, standing in the room with her.

"I think we underestimated how that performance would… affect us," A began, voice turning soft but a little scratchy. Like unspun cotton, still locked in its boll. "But that doesn't have to make everything weird, you know? I told you, it didn't mean anything, not really."

Jane's heartbeat waltzed down to her sensitized sex. The wet stains on the pillows were a toothbrush down her throat, activating her gag reflex and regurgitating her guilt.

"Please, I know you're in there. And I know you're not asleep, you never really sleep at night."

When Jane didn't reply, she heard a muted _thud_. The light peeking from underneath the slit at the door was blotted out. A seemed to have slid down to sit at the foot of her bedroom entrance.

"But if it's weird, this is me apologizing. I'm sorry I…I— t-touched you like that."

_You're sorry?!_

Jane was pretty sure some invisible goblin had taken a hammer to her toes, her ankles. She was finding it difficult to stand.

"And you don't have to worry about anything like that ever happening again. I get it, message received. I just couldn't… you didn't expect me to not… I mean, I have _eyes,_ Jane," A said thickly. "You're so—uhm… you're very pretty," she whispered to the door panel.

The goblin bounded higher, shattering Jane's kneecaps, assaulting her intestines.

"And we can just reboot, like your computers? Erase it all and pretend it never happened, if you'd prefer it."

Higher still, the goblin was shrieking gleefully, pummeling Jane's rib cage. It hurt nearly as much as the beating from Ursula's men.

"Jane, please… We can work this out together, I know we can. We'll, rewind. Reverse the situation."

_Don't go back go forward I'm sorry I—_

"Please don't shut me out, Jane," A breathed.

The goblin walloped her in the back and sent her hurdling toward the door. Jane was across the room, hand on the handle. But she couldn't turn it. Everything was still too grueling, too fresh against her razed ego.

"I think we just need to lighten up the situation, right Jane? We don't even have to address it, not anymore. We could go get breakfast, it'll be sun-up in a few hours. I don't know if they have cronuts here, but they do breakfast cruise tours. We could get on a boat! Or rent bicycles, or go to the gallery— ahh! Jane! I've got it!"

She heard some scrabbling and jiggling of the door handle. It wiggled in her grip and she nearly lost her hold, wet bar soap sudsing out of her grasp.

"Do you want to steal a painting?"

Jane could hear the smile in A's request. She steeled herself, cracked the door, grinned sheepishly, and nodded.

Somehow, A had weaseled her way into Jane's comfort zone: she was hot tea and mint TicTacs and princess cut sapphires and binary code in a body, and yet none of those things at all. Her ease, her compassion, allowed Jane to forgot the tiny details. The most glaring detail of the evening, the blonde would later curse herself for neglecting.

Jane had not removed the miked EP from her ear since that afternoon.

* * *

_Playing around with structure on this one just a bit. Don't know how the transition came across from the last heavy chapter to this somewhat heavy one. Would love to hear your thoughts and speculations. Thanks for all the love!_


	24. Selective Truths

_I don't own Frozen._

* * *

Anna assumed Jane's default position of crossed arms over a torso. The pair marched through a reluctant early morning, halting in front of a sizable reflecting pool on the west side of the Rijksmuseum. Before the entrance of the castle-turned-exhibition-hall were cut out letters, 'I Amsterdam' propped Jenga-like twelve, fourteen, seventeen feet into the air. The_ I_, the _a_, and the _m_ were painted red, the remaining letters white. A modern marketing campaign for an aged building with ancient exhibits. The nominative, active _I_, as part of the city. Making history relevant.

"They guard the central axis and the atria pretty securely, though things have been a little slip-shod since the 2013 renovation," Anna told Jane. "There's a maintenance entrance underground in the north hall, or you can try the fire escape on the second floor of the new Asian exhibit."

"What about cameras?"

"Normally I prepare for stuff like that, but since this is just a spur-of-the-moment jaunt, I was hoping you could…"

Jane rolled her eyes. "Of course."

"I found an unlocked window in the library here in 2006? O-seven? Anywho, I don't think they've bolted it since."

"And if it is locked?" Jane asked.

"I can attempt to pick it, if it's unarmed. If it is, then we'll try the Van Gogh museum. It's around the corner."

Anna led Jane around the building and through a primly manicured courtyard, shadowed bushes vomiting color and texture for spring's bloom. They skirted the edge of a fountain, one and two Euro coins glimmering from the concrete bottom and into the sinking moon's reflection. A moonful of money.

_That was a mistake… not the moon._

Anna's eyes snuck skyward to the lunar quarter, and then raced toward Jane. She looked fine. Distant, but fine.

_She's been distant before, I can fix this._

But Anna hadn't kissed Jane before. Not when her life wasn't in imminent danger. And gracious, _what a kiss_. Anna's libido had been bellowing for the better part of fifteen minutes when their mouths finally fastened together on stage; like an unaligned zipper straightening properly after a forceful _tug_. It cinched two sides of a garment (or four lips of two people) and the mechanism kept them close, linked, fitted and sewn, until the buzzer beeped and Anna returned, knowing she was neither lover nor clothing contraption.

_Just how much of a masochist am I, holding out for the hopeless?_

And what's worse, Jane had run away. To her room, which was just down the hall, but it might as well have been crossing a hemisphere. Retreating, after what felt like months of pursuit on Anna's part. Anna didn't know she had been pursuing her, never set out as a hunter, but coming to know Jane as she did, it was like the blonde needed reassurance that she was very much _worth _the pursuit, worth the effort expended and worth Anna's (or anyone's) attention. The idea of self-worth—or a lack of self-worth— worn away by electric exceptionalism, by personally mandated isolation… it was wretched.

And then Anna had _heard_ her… "_A, god… A—A—A!_" She had removed the EP faster than Jane removed the miniature _Thinker_ from the Moore vault. There was no mistaking what Jane had been doing, what Anna had considered doing after two miniature mixers of rum and Diet Coke. Inserting and retracting those electric fingers, knowing Jane had been picturing _her_, thinking about _her_ while she touched herself— no. Heady and cloudy as she might have been at the time, there was no way Jane was feeling anything genuine.

The performance had obviously affected them, Anna had admitted as much to her friend while she was speaking (_begging_) outside of Jane's door. Jane's reaction was symptomatic of the illness that was their cosmic performance. Returning to the States would cure Jane of the affliction, and Anna would have gotten her hopes up for nothing.

_And so I'm making it better. I'm being her friend. Making the awkward go away. Because that's what friends do._

After this excursion, Anna would be happy to leave Amsterdam. The city could have been, should have been, would have been, if only she and Jane were more than an amalgam of mishaps and misdeeds in a young woman's life. She had done it half right: five-star hotel and springtime booking. But this was no pleasure cruise. They had come for Hans, not for romance. Though Anna couldn't, shouldn't, wouldn't give up on her affection. Not yet. Not while it was subtly requited. Not while Jane stayed. She had run to her room, not to her jet. And even if Jane didn't stay, Anna would go after her.

_It's not like I could stop chasing her. She just doesn't think she deserves it, but—_

They reached the window to the library wing and performed a fancy maneuver that left Anna's legs scratched and pinky from the thorned bushes around the building's exterior. Two drops of blood pooled from a thin scrape on the meat of her calf. Jane fretted. Anna rolled her eyes. The hinged window opened with a boisterous _creak_, causing the pair to freeze for the better part of five minutes. When no security approached, Anna threw a leg over the sill and clomped to the carpeted ground, Jane following, tread silent as a sniper. The rainwashed window was opaque with grime, spotted and sunbleached. But dawn was breaking, and Jane was beautiful in its silhouette.

_I'm in love. I LOVE her. I would give anything to make her smile again._

Anna sneaked stealthily through the hallways, forcing Jane to pause for fifteen minutes while she clocked security rounds. They played 'I Spy' to pass the time.

Shuffling behind a portly security officer, Anna held her arms out in a rounded shape, then shook her shoulders back and forth while mimicking his footsteps. Jane clapped a hand over her mouth, but it made enough noise for the man to turn. Anna dove and rolled behind a freestanding sculpture and Jane melted into the wall, the guard shrugging contentedly and continuing on his inattentive patrol.

Anna knew right where she wanted to take Jane: the Masterpieces collection. Seventeenth century Dutch Golden Age works, those reminiscent of religious Baroque classicism but likewise deviating from loftier subjects to the mundane. So many artists latched onto dramatic scenes, high stakes and alienating story lines from unknown histories. But as the Golden Age progressed, the middle class somehow weaseled its way onto the canvas. Especially with Vermeer.

The pair made their way into a dimly lit hall with narrative paintings, all of the stories Anna loved to read. To read through viewing. Anna could stare at brushwork for hours, analyze perspective and question viewpoint as well as texture, tone, line, light and shadow. Rembrandt's shadow. The conundrum of Velázquez's true subject. Caravaggio's hearkening back to humanism during the High Renaissance. Belligerent land and cityscapes that foreshadowed the modernism to come.

Anna pirouetted around a corner and halted outside an open viewing room. The demi-bulbs weren't lit yet, which enabled Anna to see the red alert lines on the floor motion sensors.

"Wait," she whispered. "Look…"

"Sensors?"

"Yeah, could you…?"

Jane waved her hand and the light puttered out. Anna stuck a tentative foot into the room, no tolling from alarm bells or shrieking whistles.

"May I inquire as to what you would have done if I hadn't been here?" Jane asked.

Anna's grin turned wicked.

"I would have set a possum loose in the gallery."

"A _what?!_"

"A possum. Devilish little things."

"I know what a possum is. How the—"

"Just throw it right in there. With a glove, though not like yours. More gauntlet than glove, haha! The guards think the possum sets off the alarms. And then it scares the shit out of them when they go to move it, but it's really just been playing possum. It goes bolling about, avoiding capture, so the guards have to turn the security off while they catch it—"

"Allowing you to slip into an adjoining gallery undetected."

"Why yes, that would be the plan."

"Are possums even native to Amsterdam?" Jane asked incredulously.

"Does it matter? They're terrifying marsupial scavengers with a hiss louder than a tomcat and a temper worse than a wolverine. Not to mention, they bite. Here we are," Anna said, gesturing to the gallery with a flourish. "Have a look around, tell me what draws your eye."

At this, Anna pointed to a portrait of a bonneted socialite circa 1650 whose eyes were crossed and dazed.

"Very funny," Jane said.

Jane took a slow turn about the room, Anna savoring the blonde's expressions like pilfered candies. Jane's scrunched nose was soured neon gummy worms. Her pursed lips, cherry Jolly Rancher. Her arched eyebrow was fluffy cotton candy. Anna was waiting on the awe-factor. The slack jaw, breath-catching, one-in-a-million sight that hit your heart and your brain with color or subject or technique.

The Chocolate Face.

Paintings had done that for her. Left her with the same rich, unfiltered sensation that the most perfect chocolate square did when it dissolved against her taste buds. Sweet and savory, but leaving her parched. Made her want to eat more, want to see… _more_.

Literal eye candy.

"These are all very nice," Jane said.

"Nice?"

"Yes, nice."

"But—but—but—"

"That one man there looks like a pedophile. He's squeezing that child's head so tightly it's coming off his neck."

"That is one of the foremost religious paintings of the sixteenth century!" Anna sputtered.

"I'm sure there were pedophiles in the sixteenth century."

"Jane!"

"What?"

"This isn't, you're not— how can you even say that? You're doing this wrong."

"What wrong?" Jane asked.

"You're doing art, _wrong_."

"I don't think one can do art incorrectly."

"Well you're just one impossible girl, because you've certainly managed it. Come here," Anna said, dragging Jane to stand in front of a massive canvas, several times the size of their two bodies stretched out against each other.

"What do you think of this one?" Anna asked.

"I think it's too big and that man looks like a curly-headed woman," Jane returned.

"This is 'The Conspiracy of the Batvians under Claudius Civilis', commissioned in 1661. It's Caravaggio's largest piece in catalogued existence."

"The bigger the better, is that it?" Jane asked.

"It's not about size. Look, see how there's no light source coming from the canvas?"

"If the canvas itself was glowing, archivists should look into extraterrestrial traces."

"Jane!"

"No, I don't see the light in the picture," the blonde huffed.

Anna grunted. "There's not a lamp in the corner, Jane. No electricity in the seventeenth century. The light comes from outside of the frame of reference," Anna spread her fingers and made a pushing motion toward the painting. "Add that to the men at the table who are front lit, but have their backs to the viewer, he's just playing at luminescence. He is introducing light that shouldn't be there, a type of exterior invasion. In the same way, the viewer is invading with his gaze."

"That sounds inappropriate."

"Artistry is socially and culturally accepted encroachment!" Anna said.

"Save the histrionics and tell me how you really feel, A."

"You're doing it again."

"No, apparently I'm not doing it," Jane replied. "I mean, as I said, they're all quite nice. I'm sure if you sat down and talked me through each of them I would come to appreciate them, but they just seem a little depressing."

"Well, they are meant to be cathartic."

"I don't feel purged. Just… blah. And don't tell me those swords aren't pointy phallic symbols," Jane quipped.

"Maybe we should try a different time period with you," Anna said, darting through the hallways of the east wing. She had nearly grabbed Jane's hand, but thought better of it. They still weren't back to normal, whatever normal was for them.

Anna almost ran by the special touring pieces, but stopped at one oil work on loan from Brussels.

"Stand here," Anna instructed, and motioned to the painting before her. "What do you see?"

"There's a man plowing his field. And poorly, too. Those curved rows will be difficult to irrigate."

"I see death," Anna said.

"Death?" Jane asked.

"Murder by cardinal sin, hubris."

"Am I getting a morality lesson here? Because you're hardly one to talk."

"No. I want you to understand that the visual is not always visible," Anna said, eyes focused on the painting before her.

"That's nonsense."

"No. It's criticism. It's an understanding, in art, in life. Just because the eye doesn't see something, something in the visible sphere, it does not mean that something is not _visual_, that it cannot be perceived. 'Visual' is an adjective that _links_ itself to sight. It is aligned with it, but it is not, in a scientific sense, seeing. Visual is synechdoche, the unseen parts, indistinct, for the sake of the whole. Impressionism is actually a better example of this. Suggestion more so than actuality."

"Why don't you teach, if you're so enamored with this?" Jane asked dryly.

"Because if I can't hold the attention of one computer nerd, how am I supposed to explain iconology to a horde of hormonal teenagers?" Anna retorted.

"What's this one called?"

"'Landscape with the Fall of Icarus'. By Bruegel, though its origin is debated, since this was done up in oils as opposed to his preferred tempura. Who incidentally, painted the construction of the Tower of Babel. Bruegel was quite interested in pride as leitmotif."

There was a pause as Jane studied the canvas, then turned to Anna.

"You're somewhat amazing," Jane said.

Anna snorted. "What?"

Her eyes had been focused on poor Icarus's bobbing sandals, forever above water, within reach of rescue. But the dense young man's head was habitually waterlogged, having been submerged for the better part of a millennium. Anna's head was starting to feel the same, because Jane was looking at her with the Chocolate Face. With the expression she had been hoping would leak onto Jane's features after she had been blown away by her first masterpiece.

_Does… does that make me the masterpiece?_

"You just relate to all of this better than I do. You're so smart, and attentive. I didn't see murder."

"That's sort of the point, though," Anna continued, reassuring. "That life goes on, even while atrocities occur. Passersby don't notice the death happening right alongside him. Like the redlight district. All that stuff happens daily, and bakers still bake bread, bankers still deposit money, astronauts still go to space." She turned back to the painting, unable to withstand the scrutiny of Jane's stare. Anna suddenly felt sympathetic for the artwork, under glaring, judging eyes all day every day.

"Though my favorite part is how content supersedes medium."

"I'm not sure I understand," Jane said.

"See, it's like this. Icarus escaped the prison of King Minos with these wings, right? Because his dad built the labyrinth? Have you heard that story?"

"No, I haven't."

"Famous story, we'll get to it later," Anna said. "But he got a little to big for his britches, too cocky with a contraption his father had warned him about. Don't fly too close to the sun, or the wax on the wings will melt, and you will fall into the ocean. What do you think he did?"

"He flew too close to the sun."

"Exactly. So what do you see right there?" Anna asked, pointing to the bottom corner of the painting, Icarus's little legs cocked at odd angles.

"Wings. Those are the feathers from his failed wings."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, what else could they be?"

"Waves. Capping his body."

"I suppose," Jane said, screwing up her face, moving in closer to the canvas. Studious. "It does look like the sea foam is covering his splash."

"So which is it?" Anna guided her. "Death, or means of escape?"

"Can it be both?"

"Both. Either. Neither, probably. That's sort of the point. When the content becomes so piercing, even the medium, the paint and the canvas can't contain it. Doesn't do it justice. The artist's intent no longer matters, because the viewer interprets it as his own."

"But what's all that supposed to mean?"

"It's applicable to life. Take us, for example," Anna said. "Take my actions: theft, burglary, striptease, embezzlement, forgery. Put those within the legal system, a medium, a means of explanation, of representation. I am unlawful. But does that make me bad? You've stolen as much or more in dollar amount than I have."

"Pots and kettles, A," Jane said.

"The key is the morality question. Without getting in too deep, painting and being are two systems. Artists try to negotiate the system of color and canvas while we negotiate morals and laws. Just because others see something as one way, does not mean your way of seeing is any less correct, any more true than theirs. Painting and artistry teach you different ways of looking at the world. It trains and hones the eye. Lets you appreciate your own truth."

"Well, it certainly trains and hones the brain, if you're any result of artistic tutelage."

"Are you calling me clever?" Anna teased.

"I never thought you an idiot, if that's what you're implying."

"First, I'm amazing, now I've got a brain. It's good to know you aren't just putting up with me for my rockin' bod."

Jane inched away, though they had not been close to begin with. Four eyes left the painting and paired irises met swiftly, apologetically, but the scuffle of boots put further conversation on hold. They separated and hid, waiting until the heavy tread of security filed past.

The sound weighed heavily on Anna, like the burdened footsteps of pallbearers. Everything was going so well until she became careless, too frothy, despite knowing how literally Jane took most statements. Anna was getting rather good at apologizing. And that was a talent she didn't appreciate.

"Jane?" Anna whispered.

"Yes?"

"Where'd you go?"

"Up here," Jane said, contorted inhumanly atop a statue's head.

"Jane, you'll break it!"

"It's rock, I think it can withstand a bit of pressure," Jane said, and flipped down gracefully.

"I don't know why I'm surprised," Anna said, lip quirking despite herself. Her shoulders rose and fell in determined preparation. "About what I said, earlier, classic ramble, me not thinking, I didn't mean it how it—"

"There's no need," Jane said, raising a hand. "I know you were merely joking."

"Yeah, joking. Just, it's cool, nice, really, to be complimented. Just me."

"Just you?"

"You know, not Madame Rose. Or Janene or Madison Hannah or Sarah O'Conner. Me being silly ole' me, and I get a compliment. It doesn't happen often."

"I don't think… I…" Jane pursed her lips together, turned her head away and stared at a portrait. As if the wigged man would give her the words to say.

_Adorable._

"I think it best that we move on to the next gallery, shall we?"

"Sure thing," Anna brightened.

They maneuvered quietly down the hall into a gallery designated for land and cityscapes.

"You know," Jane said, without turning toward Anna, "the past is in the past. It would be a shame to go back and harp on it when we've got so much to do over the coming days."

"I couldn't agree more."

And that was the end of that subject.

"I like this one," Jane said, after ten minutes in the room.

"Ah yes, 'The Golden Bend' by Berckheyde. But where's the—" Anna drifted off and dallied in the general vicinity of the painting.

"Where's the what?" Jane asked.

"Oh, here it is," Anna said, pointing. "Its sister painting."

"Paintings have siblings?"

"Sort of. Series, collections, recurrent subjects. It's just the same subject, this particular canal, painted from the east as well as the west. What do you like about them?"

"Well, the lighting is intriguing. How the front is completely dark because the sun can't shine through, but the alleyways are still lit. The light even makes it onto the water, and the reflections! I didn't even look at those!"

"Now we're getting somewhere," Anna grinned.

"Not to mention that I could scale those stone fronts in under five minutes, what with those window sills and stone moldings."

"That's not quite—"

"But the alley there, that's flat stone, worse than sheet rock, no grip whatsoever," Jane said, face centimeters from the canvas. "But those statues look secure enough to anchor a rigging hoist, it wouldn't be too difficult to—"

"Jane, you can't climb the walls of the painting."

"Why not? That's a real place isn't it?"

"Doesn't matter. Those buildings are four hundred years old, who knows if they're still standing? And I'd question the structural integrity if they were."

"You're being awful."

"Ok, so I've been thinking about this for a while now," Anna said.

"What, you being awful?"

"Watch yourself," she said, holding up a challenging finger to Jane. "I've decided the English language is wrong. 'Awe' is a cool feeling, right? Like, awe-inspiring. So why is something that's bad aw_ful_? And something that's good is awe_some_? I don't want _some_ of the awe, I want to be full of it!"

"You certainly are full of it—"

"Jane, pay attention, I've moved from art theory to linguistics."

"Will it ever end?"

"No, but don't you see? Maybe awe started out as terrifying, but I think it's kinda deviated from the negative into something better, more like reverence. Like wonder, you know? So, from now on, I want to be full of wonder. I don't want just some of it."

"Email me your Treatise on the Destruction of the English Language as soon as we get back Stateside," Jane said, smiling.

The sun breached the horizon fully now, dawn beams drifting in through the skylights overhead. Lit paintings watched the conversation in silent approval.

"We should probably get going," Anna said, tilting her head back toward the open hallway. "Security shift will be changing in the next hour."

"I'll need you to speak with the airstrip attendants to negotiate refueling," Jane said.

"London, then?"

"Hans was there," Jane began, "but he's making his way north."

"How far north, and did I pack appropriately?"

"Quite far, and probably not. Headed north to York, but I think his destination is Scotland. Nearer the bigger cities. Glasgow, maybe Edinburgh from the looks of geographic trajectory."

"Oh joy, the one accent I can't do properly." Anna whipped a box cutter from the inside of her back pocket and flicked the blade up. "This one, then?"

"And its sister, if that's not too greedy," Jane said.

"I'm hardly one to talk. And you'd not want to split up a pair," she said, carefully slicing through the framed border of 'The Golden Bend' canvas. She rolled the paper up delicately, handed it off to Jane, then set to work on the other.

After sneaking past a separate set of patrols and a few malfunctioning security cams, Jane and Anna walked back to the Amstel for their final few hours on the mainland. They both had canvases tucked securely into their armpits, and chatted about art and words and morality. Then it turned to pancakes and cronuts, and Dutch breakfast _poffertjes_.

Once back in their room, Anna kept catching Jane sneaking glances at her newly acquired paintings.

_We'll need to get cylinders to get them transported properly, and I can buy her a frame, finally get some life into those white walls at her apartment—_

"Hi," Jane said, standing right behind Anna.

"God, don't _do_ that!" Anna jumped. "You move like a damn ghost, you—"

She couldn't finish the sentence, because Jane had hugged her.

"What—"

"I just wanted to say thank you," Jane said. "And you're extremely awful."

"I think you're awful, too."

They ordered traditional room service before they flew to Scotland.

* * *

_Philosophical fluff to make up for the unsettling tone of the previous two chapters. Might have lost a few people in the middle there with all the art, but I suggest googling the named pieces (especially Icarus and The Golden Bend) to help make sense of the chapter. I can't draw a lick, nor have I taken art history. But I love it when Anna teaches Jane something, so a little bit of theory worked its way in. Thoughts on the sort-of-reconciliation? And thanks to everyone for being so supportive. We're trucking right along. _


	25. Friction, Part the First

_I don't own Frozen._

* * *

Scotland missed the springtime memo. Shoots and sprouts attempted to blossom, but the sun was being temperamental and decided to take its leave for several days. Neither mild nor severe, but the wind was persistent. Thick white haar lumbered over grey stone daily, and moisture clung to crevices like limpet shells. Edemic nimbostratus clouds relieved themselves on the hour, and the seasonal depression was beginning to gnaw at Anna. She was perpetually chilly, but the temperature was never low enough to justify complaint. No amount of hot tea could jump start her muscles, and she nearly had the warning label on the back of the space heater memorized from reading over it in her boredom:

_2kW output with adjustable temperature controller, thermal overload protection. IP44 rated. Size: 220 x 225 x 285mm. _

Because she was rather bored. She and Jane had been cooped up in a two star hotel with one bed for four days. As luck would have it, the pair arrived at the start of the Edinburgh International Science Festival, one of the biggest science symposiums of its kind in Europe. Nearly every hotel was booked, and finding space (let alone _nice_ space) was nigh impossible. They were lucky to find the room they had, though sharing a bed wasn't ideal. And all of Anna's contacts operated out of London, so there was little sway she had over such a stony city.

"Are you sure there isn't anything else?" Anna had asked the concierge.

"Ye cam in durin' th' middle ay th' festival. Th' weaither has postponed most ay th' events, sae we'll probably be foo up fur some time."

"Then I guess we'll take what you have. But will you let me know as soon as something else becomes available?"

"Aye, enjoy yer stae."

That had been four days ago. And it had all been quite fine, until Jane realized her Internet access was patchy, if not altogether lacking. She was even grumpier than Anna.

"Dammit!" she screeched, chucking her tablet onto the unmade mattress. Rain pattered overhead and the view from their window was bleak.

"What's wrong now?" Anna asked.

"I can't even get _online_," Jane growled.

"How do you mean? Can't you just—"

"It doesn't work like that," Jane snapped. The lights in their room surged and the heater died. The third time it had happened today. Jane ran a frustrated hand through her bangs.

"What's causing it?" Anna asked.

"Of course they would hold the _science_ convention when we get into town."

"Why does that have to do with it?"

"They have a colossal supermagnet on exhibit two buildings down, and have been running demonstration tests since we got here," Jane grumbled. "Network connection is screwed, so I can't even tell if Hans has logged onto any of his accounts. I would quite literally have to reprogram multiple international satellites, which would set off enough red flags that it's not even worth the trouble. Which means I can't track him. If this hotel wasn't _right _beside the magnet—"

"You pick the hotel next time then," Anna said, justifiably irritated. "The first few we checked didn't even have Wifi access."

"I don't _have_ to have Wifi, I can establish my own connection without interference. What I need is not to have some superconducting magnetic field strong enough to power a nuclear facility two doors down from me!"

"Then go somewhere else outside of the field range. Try a café, or something. And maybe you're not able to track him because he's having the same problems."

_Or he's back in London. He's never worked this far north, but nooooo, Jane says he's up to Scotland so I'm forced to endure haggis and ungodly pipe music at six fuckin' A-M._

"You don't think he's here, do you?" Jane said sharply.

"I didn't say that," Anna returned.

_Though it was implied. You can't track someone if they aren't in the general vicinity._

"Look, we're both a little testy, because we've been cooped up for so long," Anna said. "You probably just need to get out for a while."

"Yes, sorry, I didn't mean to bark at you," Jane said, shoving her equipment into her duffel. Jane popped a TicTac and zipped a fitted jumper over her torso, movements still tight. "I'm going to be out for a while. I'll try some different spots, see what I can find. Then again, I might just keep refreshing my devices and hope to hell Hans logs onto something over the next few hours."

"Okay, cool," Anna said, though she couldn't find it in her to keep speaking. Sometimes words only compounded the tension and, contrary to popular belief, she knew when to keep her mouth shut.

Jane nodded and headed out the door, and this was the first time Anna feared Jane might not come back.

God, was it frustrating not knowing what Jane had bottled up inside of that twisted platinum head of hers. The outing at the gallery had been somewhat of a reprieve after the performance at Club Utopia. It was a patch on a wobbly tire, and air was leaking. The patch couldn't mend the obvious restlessness the pair had adopted in their interactions. Hopefully it wouldn't end up with them wrecked in a ditch on the roadside.

_Is Jane truly that uncomfortable?_

Sleeping in the same bed night after night hadn't helped. It was a UK king size, which oddly enough translated to an American queen, so space wasn't exactly the issue. Nor was lying down and attempting REM completions while facing roads of pale skin, because Jane never went to bed when Anna did. What _was_ the problem was waking up, intricately wrapped around a body that was not her own, because Jane was a fuckin' black hole that just sucked Anna straight into her gravity. And Anna would shift, and mutter, and blanch, because she had _drooled on Jane's collarbone_ and would tunnel earthworm-like into the stiff mattress if Jane ever woke and found her out. On the third morning, Jane caught her staring. Her eyes were dull with sleep, so the blonde merely grunted and rolled onto her back, but not after grinning in the most adorable fashion Anna had ever seen. Lopsided, almost drunken, with clumsy magenta lips and a subconscious daring, she had grabbed Anna's hand and threaded their fingers together like knitted yarn. Jane placed their conjoined palms north of her bellybutton.

_So maybe Jane's not uncomfortable?_ _Hell, when did she become so hard to read?_

That would be when you got personally attached to her, Anna's inner voice chided.

Anna thudded her head against the wall in rhythm, hoping for a thought _not_ Jane related, something to do that didn't take place within the confines of a dreary Scots hotel room, before she climbed the walls and peeled the flesh from her eyeballs.

_Jane's out, and we're not attached at the hip. I entertained myself before she came into the picture. I am NOT one of those love-sick nincompoops that defines my self worth through other people. Well, people that I… crowds that don't… I mean, I like it when other people notice me, but—_

More on that later.

Anna gathered up a jumper and tromped out of the hotel room. There was a science convention going on, she could distract herself with elements off of the periodic table and rocket propulsion and maybe even take a look at that magnet Jane loathed. Yes, good plan.

She skipped down to the concierge desk and received a pamphlet for her troubles, some vague gestures and inarticulate dialect relaying convention locations. Nodding, she stepped onto the front stone stoop of the hotel, only to be met with steady precipitation.

_Not before coffee first._

She made the mistake of entering a tea house and asking for a mezzo Americano (with a shot of mocha, if you have it), and earned a sniff and some garbled sounds that were certainly hostile, coming from the matronly barista-slash-tea-marm behind the counter.

Caffeine and sugar laden Anna faced the outdoors once more, mood still somber due to the unrelenting grey. She walked several blocks into the city centre, and stumbled across a fascinating science display. A complicated filtration rigging had been fitted to a gutter system outside of one of the science convention's host hotels. An enthusiastic brown headed man reed-thin and sopping wet explained in rapid high Scots the intricacies of the system while children looked on starry-eyed and parents regarded him as if he were deranged.

_Some people love science. Sort of like Jane—_

And we're back to her again.

Anna segued into the purely pedestrian district, the majority of outside experiments battling through unfortunate weather conditions while native Scots negotiated the rain with familiar ease. Anna singled out tourists from blocks away: they were the ones in slickers and waders, with umbrellas and varying degrees of raingear. One contraption exploded confetti to her left, multicolored paper strips bleeding faint dyes onto cobblestone. Soggy rainbow.

She ducked into an open exhibition space, arrayed university stalls set up with the winners of science fairs from countries as geographically disparate as Chile and Indonesia. A representative from New Zealand had bounced a laser off of the moon in timed bursts and was able to alter wave length patterns that corresponded to scaled music notes. She had gotten the computer receiver to play "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star," and her and her partner's reaction video had gone viral on YouTube. Upwards of three million hits. They were explaining the methodology to the Scots judges, and the short black-headed guy was abuzz with scientific rapture.

"When we got to 'up above the world so high, like a diamond in the sky', we just flipped the table!"

_Like a diamond in the sky._

_Jane._

_Shit._

Anna meandered, sipping on her coffee, just enjoying the bustle of the symposium. She wondered, if she had lived a normal life, if she had parents, and a home, something more fixed, would she have gone to college? Would she have even liked art, or would her tastes have gravitated toward STEM education? If memory served correctly, she'd be nearly finished with her freshman year by now, the novelty gone and stress of exams settling over her like a blanket of briars. Would she date? Join a club? Would she be a good, bad, so-so student? What would her major have been? Would her favorite foods have been different? She had practically raised herself, no way any might-have-been parents would have allowed their daughter to consume the annual poundage of chocolate she funneled down her esophagus.

_God, I might even like… Brussels sprouts, or some equally ridiculous vegetable._

Anna pushed through a particularly tight throng of attendees (one family trucking along with a double-seated stroller and three crying infants) and emerged onto another pavilion dedicated to filtration systems.

_Again, with the pipes and the irrigation and the boilers and the— wait._

_Is that… Hans?_

Anna ducked behind a glassware apparatus, bubbling red liquids in Erlenmeyer flasks distorting her head shape as she peeked at the green-eyed monster.

_No doubt. Those sideburn ruffles that would make an Elvis impersonator sneer. I can't wait to give him a piece of my—_

Now, now, Anna. Let's think about this logically for a moment. Her inner voice was usually squished by adrenaline, but this time it stopped her. Because this venture wasn't really for her.

It was for Jane.

She had no way to approach him. Anna couldn't very well saunter up to the man who had robbed her of millions and start in with, "Fancy meeting you here! Look, Bunsen burners and beaker fun, amiright?" He'd bolt, and she had no way to track him. Better to keep her distance, so as not to spook him, and call Jane. Jane, who had been correct about Hans' location all along.

Anna set aside her guilt and focused on the problem before her. She stuck her hands in her pockets, unable to come up with more than twenty-seven pounds and the key to her hotel room. She usually only worked with disposables, so she hadn't quite made it a habit of keeping Jane's gifted iPhone on her person at all times.

Hans seemed to be speaking intently with the delegation from Ireland, and from the looks of it, was getting the brush off. The two boys behind the counter seemed mildly confused, and Hans too intense for their liking.

_No surprises there._

Anna could see he was getting no where with the two, but he handed one boy his card and stormed out of the back of the exhibition hall. Anna followed as best she could, what with not knocking over toddlers and elbowing adults. She was moving against the crowd, and only just caught a glimpse of Hans turning around a corner two blocks away as she shuffled after him in the rain.

_He took a right, didn't he?_

It didn't much matter, as the street she had turned onto housed at least five side alleys within walking distance, three bus stops (with one double-decker already two traffic lights ahead of her), and a number of cabbie cars parked with their on-duty lights blinking and ready for passengers.

Anna harrumphed.

_What to do, what to do, what to— ah, yes._

"Hello boys," Anna said, skipping up to the Irish duo. The pair of boys no older than she were breaking down their display in the exhibition hall, carefully loading large vats onto dollies and bronze piping into cushioned cases. One was folding a green, white and orange flag, and the other packing away a framed quotation from _Ulysses_: "What's in a name? That is what we ask ourselves in childhood when we write the name that we are told is ours."

"The fair's over, in case you dinna know," one boy said. Dark hair, blue eyes.

"Shut it, James. You're very welcome to our stall, miss." The other one. Carrot top ginger. Blue eyes again with a chin that collapsed in on itself. Rather homely looking.

_Bingo_.

"What was it you boys were showcasing here?" Anna asked.

"Are you from the American delegation?!" the ginger asked.

"Ah, sadly no, just an observer."

"Well, if you needed an escort, James and I— name's Colin, by the by— we'd be happy to take you out—"

"Sorry guys, I'm sort of with someone," Anna said. "That guy who was just talking to you?"

Their faces soured like expired milk.

"You're with _him_?" James asked.

"Not quite. He's my… brother, trying to keep tabs."

"You don't sound German," Colin, this time.

"Distant brother. Mom's in the States and I'm with her, dad's in Berlin… complicated family history, doesn't matter," Anna waved her hand as if she were swatting a fly. "Just trying to figure out why he was harassing you guys, and to offer any apologies on his behalf."

"Ah, see, compassion and manners didn't die, there, Colin."

"Oh aye, not with her. And it wasn't really a bother, just a wee bit odd. He's just after inquiring about our process, here."

"And what exactly is your process?" Anna guided them to the conclusion.

The two boys pointed at another frame, the name _Arthur_ curlicued in ravishing calligraphy with a painted pint glass beside it. When Anna only returned their gesture with a questioning expression, Colin spoke up.

"We're with the Guinness Brewery out of Dublin, working on a new stock Stout. It's in its early development stages."

"I thought this was a collegiate competition."

"We're at uni!" James said. "UCD. But when the storehouse heard we were experimenting with alternative yeast inclusion in the maturation system—"

"— after a rejuvenated wort boiling process, they made us an offer we couldn't refuse."

"They hired you because you're moonshiners," Anna said skeptically.

"Hardly," Colin said, offended. "This isn't backwoods poteen. What we do is science."

"And it also gets you fairly lit. Had three platinum weeks last term!" James nudged Colin playfully. "Some of us can't hold it all as well," he teased, hiding his pointer finger behind a flattened palm, clearly indicating Colin.

"But why was Hans so interested in your… what was it? Warts?"

"_Wort_," Colin said. "It's the liquid mixture mashed from the barley grain that constitutes the base liquid for our traditional stock. And he was asking about supplies, if we wanted to leave Guinness and work with him."

"As if you leave Guinness," James rolled his eyes.

"So, he wanted to hire you?" Anna asked.

"Said he had some big venture in the works, wanted to know if we could get him any supplies, estimated shipping costs to the States, some shite about investment prospects. Thinks just because we're young that we're idiots."

"We don't handle that bit anyway," James said. "We are brewers. Scientists, artisans. We craft the most perfect beer to ever pass your ruby lips."

"Easy, Casanova," Anna chided. "He didn't mention where he was going, did he? He likes to run off and leave me at times."

"Nah, can't say that he did. Sure we can't interest you in a pint? Freshly brewed from the exhibition, shame for it to go to waste," Colin said.

"Yeah, and you'd be wrecked before we're even out," James said to Colin.

"Shut it, you!"

"Thank you boys," Anna said good-naturedly. "But I need to get going."

"Sure you dunnie need an escort?" Colin yelled.

"I'm quite capable. You two sure tease each other a lot."

"What are brothers for?" James said, pulling Colin's head under his armpit and noogieing him into squealing submission.

Anna laughed. "I wouldn't know."

James released Colin and pushed off of him.

"Wha? That Hans never take the mickey out of you?"

"She's lived in a different country from him, don't be rude," James instructed.

"Oh, no, I just meant, I'm not a brother… I'm a girl— like a sister, so it'd be different, I guess?" Anna backtracked. "Sorry guys, I have to go."

* * *

_Reviews appreciated._


	26. Friction, Part the Second

_I don't own Frozen. Also, I published two chapters at once this time, so make sure you go back and read the previous one!  
_

* * *

As entertaining as the two boys were, Anna needed to get back to the hotel and call Jane. It took her longer than anticipated. The sun dared to show itself while Anna had been in the exhibition hall. And it was like shining a flashlight on an upturned brick at night, hundreds of crawly critters scurrying under the light beam. Instead of critters, the nooks and crannies of Edinburgh hid people. Tons of them. All congested, teeming, because the sun was out. The fickle weather and resulting pedestrian influx made it difficult for Anna to navigate sidewalks and locate street signs in order to get back to the hotel. She had forgotten Edinburgh was a city, and that city life could be detrimentally bustling. After a half hour trek through crowds and exploding science experiments, Anna shoved the key in the slot and flung herself into the hotel room. She typed in Jane's number with wet fingers, only to be met with a ringing noise from the other side of the room.

_Looks like I'm not the only one who leaves their phone behind._

She crossed the room to Jane's black duffel, and started rummaging through it. Mints, some funky coin, rope, beanie, ah, there's that phone. She flicked the side switch to put the device on silent. Anna pulled an old wallet out to better rifle through the bag, all these little items blocking her view.

_Maybe she's got a tablet or a laptop in here and I can look into Hans trying to make nice with those guys from the brewery—_

"What are you doing?" Jane asked, head cocked in her studious default position.

"Jane!" Anna said, turning brightly. Her cranky mood had sailed, what with venturing out and finding another piece of the Hans puzzle. "I was looking for a laptop, but now you're here, so I can—"

"Give me that," Jane said, eyes on the wallet. "Please." Though it wasn't a polite request.

"Wha— oh, yeah, sure," Anna said, handing the leather piece over to Jane. She opened the billfold and studied it, ran shaking fingers over the outside before tucking the thing into her back pocket.

"I know this is not in your nature, nor mine, but don't go through my bag."

"Oh, no, Jane, I wasn't— you see, I was trying to call you, and you didn't take your phone, and it was just ringing—"

"And you couldn't have ended the call on your own device?" Jane questioned.

"No. I mean, yes, but that's not what I was doing."

"You weren't trying to call me?"

"No, I was, I mean… yes, but I wasn't looking in your bag for your phone."

"But you were looking in my bag?" Jane said, hard.

"I wasn't snooping," Anna said, suddenly indignant. Jane's tone was jagged and accusing.

"I was just looking for a laptop," Anna continued, refusing to get angry when Jane was still grumpy. "I take it you didn't have much luck this afternoon."

"Not a speck of activity," Jane said.

Anna smiled, teeth shiny, expression deranged like that of the Cheshire cat. "I bet I know why," she said.

"Oh really? You do?"

"Maybe because I saw Hans today."

"Wait, what?" Jane asked, grumpiness replaced by intensity. "Where was he? What was he doing? Did you find where he was staying?"

Anna relayed the events at the science exhibition, her conversation with James and Colin, her failed attempt at following Hans.

"But even while he was giving me the slip, I realized we have no way to make him answer our questions," Anna explained. "We'd have to corner him, or chain him up or something. And I've done my fair share of tours about Europe, but this is his playground. He knows these cities better than I do. We can't just pop into any old hotel and hope they have an interrogation room ready to use."

"Then what do you suggest?" Jane asked.

"I don't know. I'm just pointing out that we've gone into this thing a little half-cocked, wouldn't you say?"

"I had hoped I could just take what I needed from him. Something tangible, like files, or documents. I never considered I might have to negotiate with him for information. I'm not very good at that," Jane confessed.

"Even if you did take the physical files, we'd have to find them first," Anna said. "He wouldn't just keep random info on a rival in his back pocket, you know? He's probably got cabinets full of information on every known criminal with international ties. He's arguably better connected than Frollo. And more ruthless than Ursula."

"Well that certainly makes things more… complicated," Jane answered. "But what I don't understand is why he's looking into the beer-brewing process."

"He was asking about stock, moreso than the actual process. And shipping to the States. Combine that with the girls from Amsterdam, and I think he's hosting some sort of event," Anna said.

"What, like a party?"

"Party, showcase, investment pitch, exotic dinner where you eat sushi off of nude bodies—"

"What the—"

"In any case—," Anna continued, "—we still know next to nothing about his plans. Only that he needs girls and beer."

"Do you think it has anything to do with the money he diverted from our accounts? Like he needed that 350 million to… I'm not sure. To get something started?"

"That's a good theory," Anna said.

Jane's brow furrowed further. She was gnawing at the inside of her cheek, and her arms were crossed back over her torso. Anna crossed the room to sit next to her on the stiff sofa cushion, but Jane didn't open up to receive her. Her body language had been closed off ever since Amsterdam, and Anna wanted to remedy that.

She turned into Jane and caught a whiff of mint, the girl grinding away on a TicTac instead of her jaw as Anna had previously thought.

"What's up with you and mints?" Anna said suddenly. "You've got like, half a dozen little clackity-clack boxes in your duffel."

Jane contemplated the linoleum, blank-faced.

"I just mean, not exactly easy to avoid detection if they're rattling away in your bag of tricks," Anna said, keeping the conversation afloat.

"Halitosis?"

"Don't lie to me. Your breath is fresher than clean laundry in the mornings," Anna said.

Jane's inexpressive lips quirked upwards, then fell again, and her left hand started working it way over the knuckles of her right. Her head flopped back on the couch, and she released a determined breath. The blonde stood and walked toward her bag, body language a mixture of defeat and forbearance. She seemed rough and pebbly, her internal struggles a painful whetstone throwing sparks and sharpening something she had let dull over time. Anna felt apprehensive in her presence.

"Not that I know what your breath smells like…" Anna redacted. "Well, I mean, I do, from that ki— but, I mean, I said that was water under the bridge, with Club Utopia and everything, I only meant that since we've been sleeping together— not _sleeping _together, just that when I wake up, it doesn't smell. Right. No… not that it doesn't smell _right_, it just isn't smelly. Lack of odor. Scentless. Nice, but not… weird nice. What was my question again?"

Jane returned with a box of Altoids and one of the funky coins Anna had seen in the bag.

"When was the first time you noticed the mints?" she asked.

Anna had to think. It had been a while, but it wasn't like she associated the mints with anything significant. It was minor detail, merely an aftershock of an earthquake named Jane; secondary, not nearly as extreme as the first crippling wave.

"Maybe on St. John? The night when we talked on the swing at Hans' cabana."

"The night we got into a— what was the term Hans used? Bitch fight?"

"Yeah, sorry about that," Anna said. "I didn't know you then."

"And you think you know me now?"

"Well, not everything," Anna conceded. The admission dredged sadness up from the pits of her belly, mood gone from sunny hope to blues.

_You 'think' you know me. As if truly knowing someone was impossible. I know what I need to know to stay with you._

"Hans didn't get anywhere with the Irish boys, according to you. But he doesn't seem like the type to leave a job incomplete. I think we should go to local breweries and find out more," Jane said. " See if he's inquired with the local companies. We'll discover more specifics, hopefully."

_Okay, not the direction I thought you were going…_

"With that in mind, there's something you should know about me."

"Alright, shoot," Anna said, settling back on the arm of the couch.

"I— that is," Jane licked her lips and closed her palm over the bronze coin in her hand. "I'm an alcoholic."

"You… you're a— wait, what?" Anna said.

"I'm an alcoholic," Jane repeated, and then… _giggled_.

"Wha—what's so funny about that?" Anna asked, straightening up from her position. Worry bolstered by her previous sadness gave way to confusion, and Anna was damn near tired of all these negative emotions stomping all over her happy and productive day. And then Jane goes and starts _laughing _about a debilitating condition, and it's all Anna can do not to slap her across the face.

"I've just, never said it out loud," Jane said. "I thought it would be good of you to know if I get a little tense when we walk into any bars or breweries, and decent Scotch is strong, weighs in at about forty percent alcohol. The smell still puts me on edge, sometimes."

"But, but… I don't understand."

"How many times have you offered me a drink?" Jane asked. "And how many times have I accepted one?"

"I know I've offered a few times. No wine at the cabana, no mint juleps in Louisiana, no champagne in Amsterdam… never to the latter question, now that I come to think of it."

"I started sucking on mints to hide the booze on my breath," Jane said. "Got rid of one habit, but I couldn't kick the other," she said, jostling the box of Altoids. "You know how they say be careful not to eat too much when you go off cigarettes? Replace one addiction with another? I capitulated to the lesser of two evils."

"And you're always cool and minty fresh," Anna said sardonically.

"That I am."

"You want to put yourself in a situation like that? Isn't it better to keep it, I don't know… out of sight, out of mind?" Anna asked.

"It's worth it if we can get the upper hand on Hans," Jane said, palm unclenching.

"What's that, then? Sacajawea coin?"

"No… St. Monica."

"So you're… religious?" Anna asked, not knowing at all how she was feeling.

"Not really, I just— I, I know I'm fallible. And there's something bigger than me. I don't know what, but… I wouldn't have powers if there wasn't, right? Magic, or fate, or... something. That's not a good explanation, but I don't have a better one."

"I won't begrudge you your totems. Mints and cameos," Anna said. "There are worse things."

"Things have been… off," Jane said, finally turning toward Anna. "With us, I mean. Though we are… it's still working, but there are kinks. You feel it too, don't you?"

"Yes."

"I don't know why I feel this way."

"How do you feel?" Anna dared to ask.

"Unsettled. Spasmodic. Like just now, I wanted to scream at you for going through my bag. No one has ever touched my things."

"I'm sorry, I know better now."

"But that's just it, I didn't… I mean, it was alright because—I…" Jane exhaled heavily. "Fuck, I'm usually so direct. But you screwed that up, too."

"I'm not going to apologize for that one," Anna said sedately. "Most of this seems to be coming from you. I'm really trying here, Jane."

"I know. And the fact that you're still here, that you _are trying_, that's what I'm having trouble negotiating. No one's… no one's ever tried so hard with me."

"So, it's new! Friendship, or... whatever we have, it's scary."

Though Anna knew that 'friendship' was no longer an appropriate term. She could never rush Jane, even if the seeds of something more had already been sown. She could only tend, guide, and support the germination. And hopefully, with just a little more time, something hardy and beautiful would breach the topsoil, and Anna's patience would be rewarded.

"That's not what— forget it, I'll never be able to articulate it properly," Jane sighed. "I just… I opened myself up once before, and it didn't end well."

"Care to elaborate?"

"Not… now. But maybe later."

"That's fine. I'm not asking to see all the skeletons in your closet. And you have a pretty small closet, if your wardrobe prior to my interference was any indication. What more can be in there besides alcoholism and electric powers?"

"If only you knew."

"Well, whatever it is, it won't matter to me. You're no plain Jane, certainly. You're daring and brave and smart and you have such a big heart. You stayed away from the world to protect it from yourself. I don't think I would have been strong enough to do that."

_That's why I'm in love with you._

"You're the strongest person I know," Jane said.

"Really? In your social circle comprising a whole, what? Five individuals?" Anna dripped sarcasm. "But I think that, you made the braver choice. Sober people have these tough hearts, because you see the world for what it is. You don't drink to cope anymore. That's admirable, and noble, if a little self-righteous. There's been a few instances when I couldn't take reality—I'm such a softie— so I escaped through a bottle. It's… I don't know. It makes me not feel."

"I sympathize," the blonde said.

Jane squirmed about on the couch and retrieved the wallet from her back pocket. She looked from it to Anna, and then timidly reached out. Her gloved hand came to rest over Anna's denim-covered calf. An innocent gesture evolved into something deeper, on the verge of intimacy. Coupled with the events of the past week, Anna dared to hope.

"This is… my biggest skeleton," Jane said, shaking the wallet gently. "I sobered up because of this. This was character defining, an overriding instance that influenced all future decisions. It was the first domino, and the others have all fallen into pattern because of this. And I want to tell you about it. I want to tell you so badly…"

"You can, Jane. You can tell me."

"I want to, I do, but not until I can figure out what this is that's happening to me. How I feel, when I'm around you. It's intimidating, alarming. I feel so… exposed. And this has nothing to do with the, uhm, striptease. It's mystifying, how you disarm me so."

"Jane, I…"

"I want… I don't know."

_You. I want you, so badly it hurts, Jane._ _What you're saying, I feel it, too. But what you're saying also corresponds to passionate hatred and irrational fear. And I don't think I could live with myself if you were ever afraid of me._

Anna's eyes had more water pressure behind them than the Hoover Dam. She wanted nothing more than to weep for Jane, with Jane, and to kiss her confusion away. To tell her this, _this_ is what you're feeling, you just can't put a name to it yet.

_But I've been feeling it, too. And it's alright, Jane. I promise. We're kismet and this is acceptable. This is how you fall in love, right? _

_Right?_

"Well," Anna sniffled. "When you decide what it is, whatever it is in its most genuine form, and you wish to share, I will be right here," Anna said, and placed a palm over her own chest. Her other hand went down to slide over Jane's, still resting securely on her calf. And, because she could no longer deny her hope, she kissed Jane on the cheek.

Jane nodded tersely. There was a tear track sliding down the curve of her nose; she touched it with a fingertip, alarmed, as if she hadn't noticed she'd been crying. Because crying wasn't something electric robots did. Crying was uniquely human: one needs possess a soul to cry. And Jane, with a little prodding on Anna's part, was discovering hers.

"For now, we focus on Hans. Finding him. Getting as much information about his venture as we can, even if we can't speak to him directly," Anna said. "We will go to breweries tomorrow, and see what we can uncover, yes?"

Another nod.

"And," Anna said, bounding up, "if my stomach doth not deceive me, it is time for dinner."

"Some tough meat in heavy gravy again," Jane said, swiping at the liquid stain over her cheekbone. When she looked up at Anna and smiled, she was seeking repentance. Anna had already forgiven her all her faults, including future ones.

_Unconditionally._

"If you jimmy the lock to the back kitchen, I can whip us up some grilled cheeses," Anna offered.

"Do you think the staff will catch us?"

They both burst into guffawing fits. When had they ever worried themselves with hotel security?

* * *

_The last two chapters were originally this one huge hulking thing, but tone/plot/characterization clashed so much I couldn't see fit to leave it all in one, thus the split. This was also sort of hastily edited, so apologies for grammar mistakes and typos. I always love feedback, especially constructive criticism. Shout out to crunchy because I couldn't pm him/her a thanks for the last chapter. Thanks for reading, and have a great weekend all._


	27. What Jane Wants

_I don't own Frozen. A/N: I have forgone using a Scots accent generator that I found on google because I wasn't entirely pleased with it. There's a hefty bit of dialogue from Scots characters, so I hope you will forgive my laziness as I encourage you to use your imaginations for this rather lengthy chapter._

* * *

The blonde was in better spirits (but not of the liquid variety) over the next three days. Jane didn't know whether to attribute her good humor to their mission, or to their candid conversation after A's excursion to the science pavilion. It wasn't back to their 'normal', not like Louisiana and New York. Jane still felt taught as a slack line.

A though, was a trooper. She took the alcoholism in stride just as she had the electric powers, and Jane was beginning to wonder if there was anything she could do to surprise her companion. Asking questions at beer brewing facilities and Scotch stills provided welcome distraction from her musings.

Jane felt much like she had when they were at the gallery in Amsterdam: intermediate stasis, for now.

She also got to watch A work. At one institution, they were with the International Brewer's Association; the next, CIA junior agents looking into Hans's criminal background; another, members of a Better Business Bureau equivalent come to question customer service operations. In all interviews, A talked circles around the proprietors, zeroing in on Hans's true motivations. Hans wasn't getting anywhere with any of the bosses, mainly because he was so hesitant to provide information upon request:

"Wanted to know how much our premium stock would cost, with additional shipping. Told him we could work something out if he gave us his company's contact information, then he got real squirrely."

"Didn't want it to be publicized we were in business with him. Seemed a little to the left of the law, if you want my opinion."

"Said he could cut me in on a new investment scheme in exchange for a discounted rate. Sounded like a crook to me."

"Wants an order that large but won't give us the details we need? Not gonna happen, lassie."

This is what they knew:

Hans was attempting to partner with beer and whisky distributors for massive alcohol shipments to the States. He wanted large quantities, several tons worth of crated bottles shipped within the next two months. He only approached notable beverage companies. Quality, as well as quantity. He would pitch them a vague description of an investment venture in return for discounted prices. But when the owners began following procedure, he gave them the shake.

"He's looking for someone dubious," A explained. "Trying to find the greediest manager, see if they'll be willing to partner with him at the expense of their own company."

"But the companies are doing well, are they not?"

"Not all of them. Some might be desperate or greedy enough to take up Hans on his offer."

Thankfully, most of the distilleries weren't located in Edinburgh proper. Over the course of three days, A and Jane were able to investigate Hans and his intentions at offices as opposed to prep facilities, making the excursion easier on Jane's sensitive olfactory senses. The weather mimicked the pattern of previous days, patchy showers and slicing breezes giving way to stubborn sunbeams every hour or so. This resulted in two very wet, lethargic ladies, who wanted nothing more than a decent meal and possibly a flickering fireplace at the end of another long day of leg work.

"Where to now?" A asked.

"I'm famished," Jane said. "I don't care if Hans is around the corner, I couldn't move another step without some sustenance."

"What time is— holy shit! No wonder, it's past seven and we skipped lunch. Why did you make me do that?"

"I believe we were masquerading as German police around lunchtime, intent on bringing Hans in for racketeering crimes against the city government of Munich."

"That's it, Jane! You've got to _commit_ to the part. Or no one else will believe you," A returned.

"Your commitment cost us a meal."

"I wager you'd even try haggis at this point."

Jane's gaze was carving-knife sharp. "I'm not that desperate."

"But you are fortunate, check it out," A said, pointing toward a huge corner establishment just over the crosswalk.

Dunbroch's Pub and Scotch Distillery occupied an impressive quarter-block. Stone escarpments sloped down at severe angles from the rooftop, one round turret jutting out over the sidewalk below. Wet moss hugged exterior cracks, giving the building a mystical, ancient feel in such an urban cityscape. But the shellacked wooden doors and well-kept entrance seemed to beckon the pair forward in their hungering delirium.

"What do you think?" A asked.

"I've been in worse places."

"Not quite the enthusiasm I was hoping for, but I'll take it. C'mon!"

A looped her arm through Jane's and effectively dragged the blonde across the sidewalk, green light beep-beep-beeping to signal 'walk'. When A yanked on the antlered door handle, the heat and noise nearly blasted the pair back over the threshold. The loudest sound was a booming voice from a huge, barrel-chested Scotsman hosting a whisky tasting. Two tufts of red sprouted from the sides of his head like cabbages and tapered down into a curly mullet; his eyes twinkled with well-intentioned joviality. He held a curiously curved tumbler in his palm (though his hands looked better suited for steins and flagons) and seemed to be _speaking_ to the liquid inside.

"Now first, you have to say, 'hello'."

He lifted the rim of his glass not to his lips, but to his impressively sized snout, flat as a spade with nostrils you could lose several marbles in. He rolled the liquid in the glass purposefully, then brought it back down.

"Then you must inquire, 'how are you?'."

He performed the same act once again, his students looking on with manic expressions.

"And then you go back and say, 'Quite well, thank you very much.'"

After another large inhale, he ingested the glass's contents, inclined his head, puffed his cheeks a bit, hmmed and uhmmed loudly, then went through another series of facial tics before Jane saw his protruding Adam's apple bob in a swallow.

"Now you got it, now you wait, ten-nine-eight," he breathed deeply through his mouth, made a beckoning motion with his meaty hands. "Seven-six-five-four, and there! That's when the flavors hit you. What do you taste?"

"Uhm, I'm not really sure—"

"Come on now! Let it sink, right there on the middle of the tongue, avoid the tip, that 44% should be savored, aye, you get those plums there? Bit of citrus?"

"I… think I taste fruits!" one of the students offered.

"That's right you do! Good going there, lad. We'll make a Scotch drinker of you, yet."

"Everything alright over here, girls?"

Jane had been so strangely hypnotized by the large man's tasting ritual that she was startled by the girl standing not two feet before her. There was a mass of curly red hair and eyes so blue they rivaled her own. She was shorter, definitely younger, with a bright round face, but had the same mirthful glimmer in her eye as the man across the pub.

"Don't mind my dad. He's just really into his job," she said. "You'll be joining us for dinner, will you?" the girl asked, gathering up two menus.

"Yeah!" A said, no hesitation on her part.

"Just the two of yous?"

Jane nodded.

"Right then, on with me."

Jane followed the girl cautiously, A skipping merrily between the two.

"Would you like to be near the band?" the hostess asked.

"Yes!"

"No."

"Jane, come on. It'll be fun! Are there bagpipes?"

The redheaded girl snorted. "Are there bagpipes? Of course there's bagpipes. Got to rope you tourists in somehow, don't we?"

"Please, Jane!"

The curly-headed hostess raised an inquiring brow, smirking at A's little dance of excitement.

"Of course. We'd love a spot near the band," Jane said.

"Right you are."

She deposited the pair in a leather-upholstered corner booth, catty-cornered from the modest stage across the way where a series of folky instruments were strewn haphazardly about.

"Name's Merida, I'll be your server this evening. Band's on at eight, specials in the back of the book, and my dad does the whisky tastings for free if it's not too busy. If you're up for our trad specials, haggis is—"

"Not haggis," Jane interrupted.

"You didn't seem the type," Merida smiled. "But we do have an excellent carrot and leek soup with mustard seeds. And you both look like you could do with a bit of warmth in those soggy wears you're sporting. Sun's down, so they'll light the pit soon."

Merida motioned with a careless flick toward the maw of an immense fireplace threatening to swallow the bearskin rug before it.

Jane noticed three younger boys, ginger and pale, hurling matches at each other as they hopped over the stones.

"Should they be—"

"They shouldn't, but they do. We can't stop them anymore. Heathens, the lot of 'em," Merida continued. "Brothers will be. Drinks?"

"Do you have any hot chocolate?" A asked.

"I'll see what I can do," Merida returned, scrawling on her pad, grinning conspiratorially. "And yourself?"

"Water, please."

"Have it up in a bit, give you a chance to decide." Merida turned on her heel and made her way across the pub, dragging one of the triplets by the ear as she turned toward the dark cherry-wood bar. Bottles of every age and color reflected soft yellow light, and Merida seemed completely at home gathering up supplies for their drinks.

"She seems a little… young to be working at a bar," Jane redirected her attention to A.

"European pubs are vastly different from American bars. Plus, how old were you when you had your first drink?"

"Point taken," Jane said. "This is—"

"Awful, right!" A said with a wink.

"I was going to say cozy, but yes. Awful is applicable."

The eve wore on in a lazy fashion, food coming and going with the promised fire lit not long after the band struck up the first piece. What had been a moderately crowded restaurant turned into a packed pub in the flit of a mockingbird's wing. Merida pranced about, multi-tasking and deftly sliding pint glasses down the bar with repetitive ease. She was occasionally trailed by a gaggle of mischief-inducing brothers, and would rain a punch onto the beefy bicep of her roaring father whenever she got the chance.

_Nice to see a family working._

Jane felt so snug and content in the corner booth with A, full belly and clothes dry from the warmth. A's eyes reflected firelight and seemed themselves to sigh when the trad band struck up a wheezing, piping lament. They then bounced in their sockets to the beat of a Highland jig, the girl bending so far over the table her body nearly dropped into Jane's lap. Jane did not see any reason to move her, and resisted the temptation to draw her closer. Those mysterious feelings from the past few days bubbled in her gut, prodded by the fresh bread and stew mixture she'd practically inhaled as soon as Merida had placed the bowl in front of her. Her organs no longer felt jumbled, as they had in Amsterdam, but there was this disconsolate lack, a persistent wanting that needed sating if she were to ever return to normal.

Though her normal had never been enviable to begin with. Jane was almost glad for the transformation, the foundational shifting of her impassivity, into such a desperate affection. But the lack was there, had been there, and there was no better phrasing for it other than _yearning_, for connection and acceptance and ever and ever with the girl currently at her side.

_A just makes me so… happy. _

"You twos good over here?" Merida asked.

"Marvelous," A replied. "Do you need the table? Seems pretty packed in here."

"No! Stay a bit, band's not even done—"

"Ladies and gentleladies, men and those who wish they were, it's time for your favorite portion of the night!" The grizzled accordion player's voice was gruff but cheerful, like a blustery afternoon conducive to colorful kite flying. "I'm going to need a little help for this next one, any takers?"

"You girls fancy a go?" Merida asked.

"I don't know any Scottish songs!" A said.

"And I hardly know any songs, so we might not be the best choices."

"They do poppier ones for the tourists, you may well know it," Merida said.

The band leader gave his intro. "This next diddy made a splash at the end of the 80s—"

"And you yourself did as well, MacGuffin!"

"Dingwall on the drums, ladies and gentlemen!"

Dingwall, after his dig to MacGuffin, proceeded to play two downbeats on a snare, followed by a hiss of hi-hat cymbals. "Anybody out there fans of The Proclaimers? Who's gonna be the lad or lass to walk those five hundred miles with us?"

"You should do it!" Merida encouraged.

"Not for me, thank you," Jane deflected.

"What about you?" the red-head turned toward the one with copper locks, and it was like looking at the graduated sleeves of paint samples employees hand out at home improvement stores. Add another one with auburn hair and the hypothetical trio could complete a portion of the color wheel.

"I don't know…" A said.

"When have you ever been shy about anything?" Jane asked. "Get up there and sing for me."

A's eyes widened, then, with a nod, she stuck her hand in the air.

"I volunteer!" she shouted. "I volunteer as tribute!"

A raced across the pub and skirted around tables, Jane and Merida cocking their heads in amusement as A managed to trip not once, but twice on her journey to the stage.

"Odd one, that."

"She watches a lot of movies," Jane explained.

"Right, well, you seem suited."

"Pardon?"

"Nevermind me," Merida waved it off. "I've tables to bus."

The drums picked up in a tick-tock rhythm, as A and the band proceeded to sing about how willing they would be to walk hundreds of miles just to fall outside their lover's door. Which, to Jane, seemed ridiculous, as the walker would be exhausted and hardly fit for amorous activities upon reaching the door of the lover.

"Are you enjoying your evening, miss?" a middle-aged woman in prim black slacks and a white blouse floated regally beside Jane.

"Yes. Very much so."

"Glad to hear it. Anything I can fetch you?"

"No, thank you. Our server, that girl there?" Jane pointed across the room to Merida, who was giggling into her hand as her brothers tossed lit matches under the seat of a snoring woman with inappropriate cleavage. "She's been great."

"Oh, wonderful to hear. That's my daughter, that one."

"Really?" Jane asked, eyes darting from the wild young girl to the composed woman before her. "I would never have paired you."

"You're not the first. We've... reconciled opposing outlooks. But I wouldn't have matched you with your friend up there, from the way she's performing," the woman said, indicating A.

"She is a bit of a diva."

And then, swift and violent as a gasp, Jane saw a crying, freckle-faced child with pigtails on a dirty wood floor.

_Bit of a diva… the little diva… instructed her to cry…_

But it was gone, fleeting. But Jane saw it, certainly visual but not entirely…

_Oh…_

Visible.

"Are you here for business or pleasure?" the woman asked, and Jane was jolted back to the pub. "Or university gap year? You both look about the age."

"Uh…" this was A's territory, not Jane's. She was proud of herself for making it this far into a conversation, and was sure it would not have been possible had she not been so devoted to studying A's methods over the past few weeks. "Bit of both, really. Business and pleasure. Doing some… research."

"Fine, fine. Are you sure I can't get you something else? A dram of mixed malt, perhaps? You know Dunbroch's is the most famous distillery in the Highlands."

"No!" Jane said, startling the woman before her. "I mean, I'm sure it is, that's what we've been researching, but I can't… that is, I'm—"

_What the hell am I doing? Like I can unleash my demons on any lady off the street?_

Jane turned to watch A sing, and was comforted.

"Say no more. I don't partake, myself. That's my husband's domain," the woman gestured to the barrel-chested man currently _juggling_ his triplets.

"I've told him a thousand times not to do that."

"You all seem so well-adjusted. One big happy family," Jane said.

"Not always the case," the woman said, eyeing her daughter knowingly. "We've been through our own trials, but we talk it over, and I suppose we come out better for the bad times." She shifted away from the fireplace, whether afraid of the stone, the fire, or the bearskin rug, Jane could not figure.

"We've had some difficult times, too… working together," Jane said.

"But you seem so suited. You've got that secret language, you do."

"Your daughter said as much. But, what secret language?"

"The way she looks at you."

"I've no idea what you're talking about."

"That girl up there…" the woman pointed, "…seems as dedicated to you as I am to my own family. She looks at you like you're her favorite secret to keep."

_I will be right here. A had said that._

"That can't be right. She has a lot of secrets."

"No good can come of deep secrets, dear. It's fine to share between yourselves, but communication, that's the key to a good working relationship. To any relationship! I let Fergus know when he's getting out of hand. But you said you were researching distilleries? Why not ask after our own?"

"Well… not quite the distilleries themselves. We're following a… competitor. See we're, uh, interns, at a brewery in…" _What did I drink? What was that sickening stuff— _"Kentucky! New bourbon manufacturer, and we're supposed to be checking up on this guy, Hans Westerguard? Didn't come in here today did he?"

The woman's brows dipped into a deep _v_.

"You say you're his competitors?"

"Right, we don't really work with him. He sort of, uhm, messed with our bosses. And I'm just in the, uh, IT department, but my friend, up there, she does the insurance stuff and—"

_Where is all of this coming from? Stop talking before you forget what you've said and can't go back!_

"He did come in here two days prior, but I sent him back out the door."

"Really? Why's that?" Jane asked, attempting sincerity.

"He mentioned stock shipments, and I told him we were a proud, local clan. Don't dabble much internationally," the woman explained. "But he had heard of Dunbroch, and of course, who hasn't? He went for the hard sell, seemed a bit desperate. Even though I don't care for it, I know we make an enviable product. But when he started talking about the gambling—"

"Gambling?"

"Aye. Our stock was to be served at only the finest poker tables, and he tries to sell Fergus on this ridiculous idea of one of our single-malts, making its way in a tumbler toward a man with a cigar and playing cards in his hand, felt green table in Las Vegas! Of all things!"

"Wait, Vegas? You mean he's going back Stateside?"

"I'm sure _I _don't know dear. Halfway through his pitch he started spewing nonsense about boats. But after he found out he wasn't even talking up the right ear, he scurried away like a kicked pup."

"How's that?"

"Fergus is just the Master Distiller. I run the business end."

"I might have guessed," Jane agreed.

A's song ended and she began shaking hands with all the band members.

"Oh! I'll dash before your friend returns," the older woman said. "Sorry to keep running my gob."

"Wait! Uh—"

"Elinor, dear."

"Elinor… how much for one of those, taste-class things? My friend's of age and she might enjoy it. Your husband seems… entertaining."

"For you? No charge. Just send her on over to him. And remember, dear, communicate with your partner. Tell her how you feel, and everything will run much more smoothly."

Jane swallowed thickly, hugging her arms over her torso as the weight of that statement knocked her back with the force of a boxer's uppercut. Finally, the dissonance defined:

_How I feel… oh god… I feel for her, but I shouldn't. There's affection, certainly, camaraderie, admiration… Can't suppress the physical attraction any longer… I want her, but why would she want me… I could even grow to love—_

"Jane! What'd you think? Jane? Hello, earth to hacker?" A knocked on her skull with due diligence, an undercover woodpecker.

"Beautiful."

"Not exactly what I'd term late 80s pop, but I'll take it."

"Awful, then," Jane smiled sadly.

"Hey. What's wrong? Did you mean, like, my awful-awful, or awful as in how everybody else sees it?"

Jane itched to touch her. The hooded light overhead flickered with Jane's nervousness, and she wanted to leave that damn confining booth with a smidgen of sanity. Which would not happen, if she stayed so close to A. A, who was becomingly flushed, regarding her with the most loving… _that's it! Loving_… expression she'd ever seen directed towards her person.

"Come. I've a surprise for you," Jane said, and took A's hand. She tugged her out of the booth and A looked cutely confused.

"Mr. Fergus?" Jane asked.

"Aye, that's me, lasses!"

"Your wife, Elinor," Jane began, and then Fergus looked as if the fear of God had struck deep down within his ribcage. "… said you were Dunbroch's Master Distiller," Jane finished, and Fergus breathed a sigh of relief. "That you did those tastings, and you could do one for my friend here?"

"Of course, I can!" Fergus said, and clapped the girls over the shoulders. "You up for an education, my girl?" he asked A.

"Sure, I'm game for anything once," A replied.

"None for yourself?" Fergus asked.

"Jane—"

"It's fine, A. I'll listen."

"Alright, the tasting begins," Fergus twirled two glasses in his hands. "There's a bit of history, but I can skip that bit if you're not interested."

"Oh no! I love a story," A said.

"Right then. The history of the Scotch whisky, spelled without an _e_ like you Americans so prefer, actually begins with a riveting period. The Black Plague…"

"This could take a while, are you sure you're alright?" A whispered to Jane.

"As long as you're having fun, I'll be fine."

A took Jane's hand. "Jane, I—"

"Listen," Jane instructed, squeezing her hand and bringing her lips to A's ear. "Or you'll miss your story."

* * *

Somewhere around 1860 with mixed grain and a lad named Andrew Usher, A grew impatient. So Fergus swilled a twelve year old malt blend in a Glencairn for himself and a Copa Capiza glass for A, then flung the liquid on the ground, forcing A to let the liquid coat the interior of her glass so as to remove any odors that weren't purely _whisky_. Jane flexed her fingers when the drops hit the floor. Fergus added some water to A's next dram, and prepped her for a swallow.

"Now inhale, then go ahead, and just leave it there on your tongue, not the tip, let it rest on the middle of the tongue and migrate to the soft pallet. That's it, good lass there. Then drink, and wait, and—"

"Woah," A said, flush growing even brighter. "That was…"

Jane quietly mouthed 'awful' at her side.

"You get it, don't you lass?! The experience of the spirit! You must be tender to it, coax it, and appreciate it, and love it. Like a fine woman is an aged spirit."

"Ho!"

"Hey!"

"What's that?" A asked.

"Band's back, I think," Jane said. "And if I'm not mistaken—"

"Oh, cripes, not this one again," Merida plopped down with a heavy tray, an unladylike straddling of a barstool between her dad and the two standing girls.

"What, no!" A threw a hand over her chest. "I love this song!"

"I _know_ this song!" Jane said.

"Well, at least it's not 'Auld Lang Syne' again," the curly-haired girl complained.

"Speak for yourself, they needed something that bordered on folk that could draw crowds in during the season," Fergus chided, a hand extended toward the band. "This is us keeping up with popular culture."

"Dad, you wouldn't know popular culture if it bit you in the arse."

"Ho!"

"Hey!"

"Come on, Jane, let's go sing!" A tugged on her gloved hand, and fabric rubbed her skin. It felt glorious. "I know you like this one, I put it on your CD."

"A…"

"Please! I'll, I'll, well, I don't know what I'll do, but I'll make it up to you somehow."

_I think I might be falling for you. Could you forgive me that transgression?_

"Okay."

"Wonderful! Dingwall, Dingwall!"

The band continued to play "Ho Hey" as A approached, and tittered a few words into Mr. MacIntosh's ear. He plucked a string on his bass, and inclined his head toward MacGuffin at the center mic stand. The hairy blonde Scotsman fingering accordion keys scooted back, relinquishing the mic to the pair.

"Ho!"

Proceeded by a series of strums, and then:

"Hey!"

People at tables began clapping, and A dragged Jane up on the small stage. It was but a foot off the ground, but Jane hadn't had this many pairs of eyes trained on her since… ever. She could feel the static building in her gloves, the light filaments burning in their bulbs, flickering, the monitors overcome with static, a spark from her pinky and then—

"Ho!" A sang.

"Hey," she quietly returned.

A pulled her so that they were sharing the microphone, lips close enough to taste the metallic casing. Faces so near that A's blocked out the rest of the room, and Jane was okay with that.

"I've been trying to do it right," A sang.

"I've been living a lonely life," Jane's turn.

"I've been sleeping here instead."

"I've been sleeping in my bed."

They sang together, and A took a feather-light high harmony on the third while Jane stayed on the melody: "Sleeping in my bed."

The song was short, and not a particular vocal challenge, and Mr. Fergus was correct in that it held an old-world simplicity. And when Jane heard her own voice, nestled so comfortably underneath A's, notes melding and deviating at just the right points, an anthem of _sweetheart_ relayed back and forth like cursive-scripted love letters, it solidified things for her.

_I am taken with her. I want more with her. I've told her almost everything, and she still hasn't run from me. I… trust her, wholeheartedly._

"I belong with you, you belong with me, you're my sweetheart."

They finished the song in tandem to raucous applause, Elinor grinning and soundless in the back corner. Merida had two fingers under her tongue and wolf-whistled, and Fergus was clapping and slapping his knee while the triplets stole cakes and pastries during the uproar.

A took a deep curtsy and motioned to Jane, who bowed stiffly, swiftly, and then jumped off stage. They returned to their booth and threw three hundred pounds in cash on the table, and set back to their hotel on an adrenaline high. A tenacious mist clung to their heated faces, the temperature having dropped significantly since sundown. They huddled together as they walked, jogging over trafficless crosswalks and A postulating wild theories as to the activities of the ancient Scottish kings who once occupied the massive stone structures they encountered at every turn.

"So seriously, when we retire, we've got to become cabaret singers," A exclaimed. "Your voice is low and drop-dead sexy. Oh god, we could be like Velma Kelly and Roxy Hart! You know, from _Chicago_. Have I made you watch that one yet? I'll get it when we go back to—"

"I have this peculiar feeling that we should kiss. Properly, this time."

A stopped walking, and it took Jane five further steps to realize the other girl wasn't by her side. There was only a road on her left, and a twelve-foot stone wall on her right. And Jane couldn't fathom A camouflaging herself in crawling ivy at the suggestion of a kiss.

"What did you say?" A asked.

"I'm sorry, you were still talking. I should have let you finish. _Chicago_, was it? No, we haven't watched that one together yet. But I discovered some new information that might send us back to the States so we can pick it—"

Jane's turn to be cut off, for A had taken four deliberate steps and her hand came up to cup Jane's jaw, another at the back of her neck, right tilt, and… _there_.

A tasted like marzipan, with notes of tangerine and marmalade seeping from the whisky-wet flesh of her plump lower lip. And it wasn't a tight pucker, but relaxed mouth muscles rubbing to release at least a week's worth of unaddressed tension. The act was balm and salve and tonic and potion, in addition to nicotine and alcohol and sex.

And there, when the contraction ended and A's tongue painted life onto Jane's lonely lips… that was grace.

"I think I'm in love with you," A said, whispering against the blonde's mouth. She closed her eyes and her head did not tilt to meet Jane's.

Jane, for her part, had been so stunned by A's abrupt action that she realized she'd not laid a finger on the other girl. So her hands crept up A's arm, mimicking the ivy's skyward path on the stone wall behind them. A's hands still traced the lines of Jane's jaw and neck. So Jane entwined their fingers, short, freckled digits in her own cotton-covered ones, and brought them down to their sides. Jane then coaxed the girl's head upwards.

"Hey," Jane said.

"Ho," A whimpered, and Jane might have loved her then.

Jane kissed A's forehead, noting, even with just her lips, the furrowed crease of distress. So she kissed the bridge of A's nose, and her temple. She lifted A's right hand in her dominant left, kissed her palm, and then her third knuckle.

"Is this right?" Jane asked.

"What?"

"Am I… I mean to say," Jane twisted A's hand into a fist but plucked her thumb from beneath the curved fingers. She ran her lips over the angled knuckle and kissed the whorled pad of the opposable digit. She wanted to kiss A. _A_, whoever she was. Wanted that thumbprint seared into her lips, so that she knew unquestionably the identity of the woman she so trusted.

"Am I… am I doing this correctly?"

A took her free hand and tapped her swollen lips. "Almost."

"I said I didn't know what I wanted."

"You did."

"I know now, though. I think I've known for some time, I just couldn't… quite… place it."

"That's alright," A replied, eyes shiny. "This isn't how I— I, didn't want to say anything to scare you. It feels too soon and too long but… It's just how I feel. I… I love you," A said again.

Jane kissed her more purposefully then, and A was quick to introduce tongue. Balmy brushes, and then the first meeting, tip to tip for the briefest of moments before they decided on a tornado-like swirl. Jane could taste remnants of alcohol and nearly pulled away, but she had already decided:

_A for addiction_. _A for affection. A for… _

_Always._

A for aggressive. Despite the height difference, Jane's back was in a wall full of ivy, and she could feel the rough friction of A's thumbs circling a jutting hipbone through layers of shirt and cotton jumper. When they broke, Jane had to loose her grip from the backs of A's elbows, having dug so hard into them she was sure her fingernails had left impressions. A was breathless but still wanted the contact, nuzzling noses and stroking Jane with eager fingers.

"I love you, and it feels so good to say it," A murmured.

"I don't know if… A—"

"It's okay, I understand."

"But know I trust you. Completely," Jane returned. "I've never trusted anyone, for as long as I can remember. But you."

And they kissed under a dying streetlamp on a miserable Scottish night. Chilly mists gave way to fog and covered them in ethereal whiteness. Their lips were still touching when the sun breached the horizon hours later.

* * *

_Ugh... Even though this had THE KISS, I'm not entirely happy with it. It's too long, and I didn't have time to make the Wednesday posting and do the dialect bit. Anyway, I hope I at least achieved an 'Acceptable' if not 'Exceeds Expectations'. And I usually quite dislike songs in stories, which is why I only did a bit structured the same as dialogue, but the Lennon and Maisy cover is impressive. And it's still sort of Disney, so... romantic duet, anyone? Alright, I'm stopping with the justifications and waiting for the barrage. *takes cover* Go._


End file.
